


Stolen Hearts

by Trish47



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Blood Magic, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Epic Battles, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fake Marriage, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mystery, Partners to Lovers, Quests, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-07-20 05:45:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16130882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trish47/pseuds/Trish47
Summary: As the Judge of Souls, Rey weighs humans' hearts to assign their fates. When an imposing man who goes by Kylo Ren shows up without a heart, Rey seizes the chance to solve a mystery that threatens the universe. Returning to the mortal world together, Rey and Kylo rush to find his murderer and restore balance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the mods in the RFFA, thanks for creating this challenge and all the hard work you do behind the scenes.   
> To Lizzen, my cheerleader and beta, thank you for your enthusiasm and support with this project.  
> To Phoenix, who saved many lines from the chopping block and giggled with me over the writing process. :heart:  
> To reyofdarkness (mitslits) and niteowlsabineren for reading and proofing.
> 
> This story wouldn't be here without any of you. Thank you for being such wonderful friends, betas, and supporters. Cheers!

Long, slender fingers sweep through the downy plumage lining her roost. Blood-red quills stretch into golden feathers, laying stark against the white fluff. Tonight, there is another sad memento to add. Like humans shed hair in times of stress, Rey has shed a sacred feather growing from her arms for each lost soul—the ones she couldn’t save, the ones she failed. The shimmering feathers fell shortly after her Devourer disposed of the helpless souls in the manner which gave her white-striped, feline arbitrator its name.

Rey strokes the feathers gathered in her nest while she tallies them: forty-six. Forty-six heartless creatures had arrived pleading for their promised judgement, unable to do more than moan with frightened discontent. Forty-six verdicts only she possessed the power to declare had been ripped from her jurisdiction. Forty-six lives that amounted to nothing.

The trend could lead to catastrophe: true chaos—not the disruptive, maddening mess wrought by the most recent human war littering Rey’s celestial halls with a staggering amount of newly dead. Unlike the leaders of the clashing forces below—a dominating empire against a pitiful resistance—every loss counts against Rey.

Between shuffling souls through their transition and formulating plans to restore order on Patagonia, there’s been little time to breathe, much less ponder how and why so many speechless souls are showing up with sucking holes where their most precious organ—the holy repository of a person’s true self—should be.

Without placing a heart on her scales, there can be no glory, no rest; the order of the universe depends on Rey assigning humans their ultimate fate after weighing their deeds, the good and the bad, before deciding on their end. Do they go to the Sublime? Are they granted time for reflection and redemption? Or do they become ashes among the cleansing flames?

For now, loath as she is to push it back in her mind, Rey has other duties that can’t stop because of a malevolent mystery. Perhaps, once whatever battle going on below ends, the flow of spirits through her halls will abate enough to give her time to figure out why they arrive without the most essential organ. Deep down, she suspects the question may be less _why_ and more _who_. Thinking someone intentionally robbed these humans of their peace or atonement sickens her.

Rey holds the latest feather, smaller than all the others, in a delicate clasp. Her blood drips from the quill; her arm aches. She recalls the child’s face, so small all it could do was wail while her chief juror, Connix, placed it in her arms—though the older lost souls didn’t do much else. None of them wished to greet children entering her realm, even under innocent, understanding circumstances, but at least, in such hard cases, the Gifting corrected a premature arrival. At least there was hope.

But the Gifting can’t take place without a heart, and the child came to her marked with a small pink slash on her chest. Even her sacred tiger, whose mouth usually foamed with anticipation for a meal, whined at the pitiful offering.

“It must be done,” she said to her holy companion, stroking its massive head with a shaky hand. “Or it will fester.”

In the end, she couldn’t watch. Rey’s gilded wings carried her away, up to her spacious nest to add the tiny feather to the others she’d collected.

 _Who would do this?_ Warm tears splash against the backs of her hands. _Who could be so cruel? What do they want with the hearts?_

She’s stopped crying by the time Connix calls out to her from below her roost. “Judicious One, you’re needed in the confessional.”

 _Odd_ , Rey thinks as she floats down to the floor.

She doesn’t often venture into the Hall of Confessors. The congregated beings who listen to the souls’ misdeeds and atonements, who listen to them read from their burial books about their lives, don’t require oversight or management. They run their confessional all on their own, allowing the departed to unburden their hearts before sending them to the Hall of Judgement where they face Rey’s golden scales.

“Another battlefield influx?” Rey asks as they hasten toward the far doors.

Connix’s head shifts in sharp, agitated movements until Rey takes her hand and pulls her to a stop. She smooths the white feathers fanned across her collarbone. Connix tilts up her chin, allowing Rey to stroke the hollow of her throat. “What’s happened, Little Bird?”

Calmer now, she swallows before revealing, “He won’t confess. Won’t speak.”

“Another of the heartless?” _Two in one day?_ That hadn’t happened before.

Deep lines form at her mouth’s edges. “That’s the problem. The confessors can’t subdue him to check. With the others. . . you could tell they were shells. They came to us withered, crying. This one—”

“Won’t put up a fight much longer,” Rey finishes, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind Connix’s ear. She won’t tolerate any further disorder. “He’ll confess and face his judgement, even if I must take it through force.”

—————

The stories and teachings from his childhood didn’t prepare Kylo for the other side of death. He didn’t know he could fight in the afterlife, didn’t know he could resist commands from the deities dwelling there, didn’t know he could make them _bleed_.

In his lifetime, he’d never hit a woman. Not unless it was an organized duel and a fair fight. He’d made Phasma bleed once—a long time ago, when they were both relative novices in the art of war—and she’d repaid him tenfold. He still bore her scar on his face and collarbone—a ghastly thing that had never healed properly after nearly killing him with infection. He hadn’t raised anything except his respect to her since.

Despite his past, when their taloned hands reach for him—these white-veiled creatures with red bands painted across their black eyes, with feminine bodies flashing curved, hawk-like beaks and sharp talons—Kylo responds to the threat without guilt. They won’t obtain what they seek to peck and claw out of him. His chest already aches.

The creatures aren’t prepared for his sword. Perhaps, he considers, many of the dead do not arrive with their weapons. Savoring his luck, he keeps them at bay, drawing blood from arms and thighs before they retreat. They resume their perches in the confessional’s staggered rows, the cowards tending to their injured sisters.

Kylo steadies his breathing, slips his sword back into its sheath, and stands tall and proud under their scornful eyes. He continues to remain mute. He may not know everything about navigating the afterlife, but he knows enough to keep his mouth shut. Speaking of his life, even uttering his name, could result in his judgment, in a cessation of his existence.

Regardless of where his judgement will leave him, he won’t accept it until he gets some answers; he can’t remember how or where he died. He only remembers the rain on his face, the rocks scraping along his clothes, and the breathless weightlessness of a long freefall.

—————

A mosaic of glass shards and canary-colored jewels covers the confessional’s floor in the shape of a sun. From below, the real heavenly body shines through, casting warm light around the marbled chamber. It invites souls in and welcomes them, yet the brightness leaves no space for secrets or untruths.

In the surrounding stands, her cast of bird-like confessors looks down on the newcomer, their talons biting into their robes’ white folds or curving around their throats. Subdued alarm emanates from the group of wary stares.

Rey can understand their unease. In the eye of the sun—at the center of the universe—the uncooperative man Connix described stretches like a shadow against the light. His black cloak trails at his heels, dusting the yellow inlay, dimming the rays at his feet. Though there is a sense of defiance in the set of his shoulders, he makes no move to unsheathe his sword.

He looms. Somehow, despite the towering stands of confessors, he manages to be the tallest entity in the room.

Rey approaches him, edging around the sparkling lines of jewels mimicking the sun’s long fingers. She holds her back erect, her head straight, peering at him through her golden mask. While she has no visible weapon, she wants him to know that she requires no polished metal to wound him; her inherent powers are more than capable of dealing with difficult souls.

When she finally sees his face, her bravado falters: someone’s blade has already left its mark. Along the right side of his face, a long stripe of broken flesh cuts across his brow and cheek, extending further than her eyes can follow. The scar tissue is old and stretched, too muddled to have been the cause of his death.

Soldiers with more grievous injuries have passed through her halls, ones with torsos flayed open from groin to chest, bellies sliced across to expose the innards, or slit throats that never quit bleeding. Those lost in battle died messily, drenched in blood and sweat, sometimes with tear tracks through the dirt on their faces or stinking of urine. It’s knowing he’d lived through a near-fatal injury which gives her pause.

This is a man who has faced death before and walked away.

It isn’t his scar alone that strikes her: his eyes—burnt gold in the light from below, but flecked with browns of the deep, ancient woods—draw her in, calling to her without a word leaving his full lips. They widen as she steps into his periphery, and she sees them glance at her before darting away.

If he’s trying to ignore her, he’s about to find it a futile endeavor.

Rey stalks forward, pushing her falcon-shaped mask to the crown of her head to better assess his person: the raven locks falling across his forehead, the quilted tunic’s black fabric woven with gold and crimson threads, the jeweled brooch holding his woolen cloak in place, the close-fitting pants feeding into polished riding boots. Between the way he carries himself and the garments he wears, Rey knows she is dealing with a human of status. The emblem on his brooch bears the same symbol she has seen on countless soldiers: the First Order's insignia.

Ignoring his allegiance, closer inspection reveals a tattered gap over his chest. Her fingers extend to touch the space, but the man shifts so his cloak falls over the slashed fabric.

“Do you know where you are?” she asks in an effort to be fair. Confused souls have passed through her halls before, though none have ever acted out in violence.

He gives her a near-imperceptible nod of acknowledgement.

“Then why will you not confess?” At his continued silence, she strides a few paces away, hands resting at her hips, collecting herself before turning toward him with a new question. “Are you afraid?”

His jaw rolls in a calculating way while the hands at his sides ball into fists. “I am not afraid of you nor your judgment.”

She swoops down on him so quickly he doesn’t have time to stagger backward. Though her eyeline levels with his chin, her temper loans her an imposing presence. “You are a fool not to fear me, Lost One. It is on my scales your heart will be weighed. By my command, you will either be condemned or uplifted. By my judgment, you will meet your ultimate end. You should kneel and tremble at my feet.”

“I can assure you that will never happen.”

The smugness radiating from him strokes her ire, though Rey resists lashing out. While other Keepers may be quick to strike souls for insolence, she leans toward mercy. Her mentor, the Wise One, has chastised her on multiple occasions, warning of bias. His oft-reiterated reminder whispers through her thoughts: _Eyes lie, Rey. They only offer glimpses of a soul. It’s why you weigh their hearts._

 _What if they have no heart_? She supposes she’ll need the next best thing. “Give me your name.”

“No.”

She’s never met a soul so determined to incur her wrath. “Do you wish to meet my Devourer?” Rey presses closer. She has to tilt her head to capture his eyes—pretty, dangerous eyes—in her own steady gaze. Her breath glances across his chin. “He so loves the taste of stubborness.”

“You can’t threaten a man,” he returns, inching his head down in a way that almost makes their noses brush, “who has longed to disappear since boyhood.”

His words sink into her like ice, and it cools her anger. Still, she can’t let him linger in her halls for as long as he likes. She’s witnessed souls rot for waiting, for raging against their deaths. Over the years, Rey has learned it’s best to take such troublemakers in hand. It’s time to confirm or quash her suspicion about his heart.

Without preamble or warning, her fist plunges into the man’s chest to take what is rightfully hers—only nothing’s there. It’s empty, devoid of the holy organ. Her fingers clench around empty space.

The man grouses and grits his teeth. “A rather pitiful attempt at torture. You could use a teacher.”

Rey can only stare. A forty-seventh heartless soul for her nest, except he will not join her feathered memorial. No, he won’t become one of the devoured. She has other plans for this one.


	2. Chapter 2

With her hand still buried in his chest, Kylo’s clamps down on her forearm. He pulls out of her grasp with a grunt, pity mixed with resignation on his face. “Do you understand now?” he asks. “Even if I wanted to confess my sins, I’d have no way to be judged.”

She shakes off his grip, rubbing her arm. He watches as her expression volleys between curiosity and anger. Anger wins out. “You came here without a heart. Did you do it on purpose?”

 _Would anyone choose such a fate_? “No.”

Her features soften briefly before her jaw tightens. “Then someone did this to you.”

“I had enemies in life,” he states simply. As the grandson to the great, fallen Emperor—Vader—he’d endured threats upon his life since childhood. Followers of Palpatine, Keeper of Discord and mentor to his grandfather, had hunted him until his parents sent him away, hoping obscurity would keep him safe. They’d only succeeded in making him more vulnerable. The scars scattered across his body like canyons and valleys of healed wounds are proof he’ll carry forever. Yet his weakness extended beyond mangled flesh. Kylo balls his fists, squeezing away the thought. “When my murderer walks into this hall, I’ll know them.”

The goddess frowns as a small red bird with a patch of white on its breast alights on her shoulder and chirps in her ear. Rey’s eyes never leave his. “My halls are not a vestibule for your revenge. You must be judged.”

Can she sentence him without his heart? Will she steal his chance to avenge his own murder? He thought she was the Keeper of Justice. “How do you plan to do that?”

**—————**

Connix twitters in her ear again. Rey swats her from her perch, annoyed at the interruption. This is the only lead they’ve had to finding the reason behind the heartless dead.

In a flash of white accompanied by a soft _pop_ , Connix transforms into her mortal bearing, the feathers at her throat as ruffled as her mood. "Judicious One, we can't keep the doors closed any longer. Souls are amassing, waiting to confess."

It’s the war. Another tidal wave of souls has come crashing against the doors after a terrible battle. Her juror is right: they must let the souls in. Souls who linger too long outside of her halls fade to shades, siphoning off into the dark reaches of space, forgotten and lost forever. It is, perhaps, worse than being consumed by her Devourer.

She won’t permit one petulant man, who will give neither his confession nor his name, impede others’ passage. "Follow me.”

"I'm staying here," he returns. "I'll wait until the man who killed me walks through those doors."

 _Man_? He hadn’t mentioned a man before, though it was common for souls to remember things in stages. It could be another clue. "You know who did this to you?"

"No," he reiterates. "But I'll know him when I see him."

His reasoning doesn't make any sense. How will he instinctively know the person who caused his death? She leans in, pressing up onto her tiptoes so her mouth is close to his ear when she speaks. "Don't make me force you."

The mind can be coerced with encouragement and the right push of energy. Her fingertips ghost along his jaw to his left temple. Here at the thinnest juncture, she infiltrates his mind to plant her commands, but a barrage of sensory input pushes back through the bond. It’s almost too quick for her to process: pelting rain, thundering hoofbeats, falling far and fast. Another flash brings a curved blade before her eyes, shaped like a fang, coming toward her chest.

The vision snaps off as the Lost One yanks away from her, hand over his chest, sucking in deep, gulping breaths. Rey is not nearly as affected. “What was that?” he asks.

How the bond happened isn’t important. Only its muddled images matter; they may be clues to solving the current mystery of the stolen hearts. “What did you see?”

“It was my death. My final moments.”

She suspected as much, though it does little to dispel the feeling she’s seen the fanged blade somewhere before. Stepping around him, she hastens toward the Hall of Judgement, struggling with her desire to analyze the vision, yet knowing her chief duty calls. From behind her, she hears his agitated “Wait.” It doesn’t stop her. He wants answers she doesn’t yet possess.

At her hall’s door, the Devourer growls low at the intruder, tail twitching, ready to pounce on the soul who hasn't followed protocol. Rey calms the great beast with a hardy scratch beneath its chin, whispering, “He isn’t a snack.”

**—————**

Whatever Rey says to the massive tiger makes it growl in dissatisfaction before settling its eyes on him. Kylo would like to claim he isn't intimidated. He'd gone on hunts with his father and his troops, but the game he’d taken down was nothing in comparison to the enormous creature. If he dared to step close enough, its head would reach his chest. Truth be told, after their shared vision, he’s more intimidated by the goddess in front of him.

When she was in his mind, when she glimpsed his death, her power had overwhelmed him, crashing over him like a brutal wave. He’d rather she was an ally instead of an enemy. Perhaps, through her, he can seek his revenge.

She seems in no rush to address his questions, so Kylo surveys the hall with no small measure of wonder.

The center fixture is her legendary scales. Erected against the far wall, marble steps lead up to the base. They stand taller than some homes, constructed entirely of pure gold. From the beam, chains hold round platforms, perfectly weighted and hanging a few feet above the ground. Etched into the pillar are ornate carvings, images depicting men and women undergoing judgement from a falcon-headed woman: Rey. There's a blindfold over her eyes, showing Justice is blind. A human dressed like the woman who had interrupted them earlier stands at either side of the scales, still as sentinels, white stripes three inches thick lining the skin across their eyes, stretching from temple to temple.

One wall is made of glass, creating a window from floor to ceiling with an immaculate view of the celestial bodies rotating beyond. They really do rest among the stars here. In front of the window, a pool of water reflects the stars, making it impossible to tell how deep it is. Steps leading into the pool disappear beneath the still, inky waters, no bottom in sight.

Opposite to the window, vines climb a wall. Near the top, a nest of entwined branches, larger than an eagle’s, juts out. At his back, the final wall is the least alien. A fire blazes in a huge hearth—spacious enough to roast a wild boar whole—yet it emits no heat. On one side of the hearth is a white stone altar, laid out with various implements. The other side hosts a golden door engraved with strange symbols he can’t decipher.

The two figures near the scales begin to advance toward him, but Rey waves them off. "He's a. . ."

He waits to see what word she selects. _Complication? Nuisance_? Or, perhaps his master’s favorite: _Cur_?

"Guest," she finishes, glancing over her shoulder to narrow her eyes at him. “One who will not interfere with my work.”

“What about—?”

She cuts him off. “Patience. I must address those who are waiting for their peace. Do I have your word?"

"How can you trust my word?”

"Within these halls, all lies are known, Lost One," she replies. "Do you promise?"

Her question’s weight presses his father’s image to the forefront of his mind. Even under Snoke’s orders, he couldn’t steal Han’s chance at finding peace; he has no intention to rob others of the same opportunity. "I do."

A satisfied smile crosses her lips, and she proceeds to the bottom of the marbled stairs. Extending her arms to each side, Rey allows the golden feathers lining her arms to fan out in dazzling brilliance. The sight makes his breath hitch. She doesn't so much flap her way to the right scale's platform as she does drift up, as if an invisible wind has lifted her to her rightful place.

As her bare foot touches the disc, nothing moves. The scales stay perfectly in balance, as if she weren’t standing on it at all. She clasps her hands in front of her and indicates for the blonde woman to open the doors.

**—————**

There's a line of souls. They proceed forward one by one, not pausing to stare at the magnificence around them—unlike the man who has taken in every inch of the place since being admitted. The souls in front of her, some dragging their feet, others hobbling along in pain, some walking proud and tall, only have eyes for Rey and her scales.

As they ascend the stairs, they offer their hearts. Jurors Pava and D’Acy take their organs and place them on the scale. Rey can feel each heart's truth pass through her like an electric current. In a breath, she determines whether the soul has done enough during their life to gain entrance into the Sublime, or if they need additional time to reflect on their questionable deeds before coming to her scales once more. Out of the entire slew, there is only a single heart laden with unspeakable crimes, lacking any sense of guilt or remorse.

It's a bad heart. A dark soul. Irredeemable.

For most of the souls, Rey has lifted one feathered arm toward the ceiling to signify where the soul is meant to go. Warm winds sweep under the worthy and carry them up to the Sublime. For those who need to examine their choices, she points to the pool of water—a place of reflection. For the unworthy souls, she points to the hearth; they must be cleansed through more extreme measures.

This rotten soul doesn't fight her fate. The old woman refrains from entreaties. Rey knows what she's done, and the soul understands why her fate has been decided in this way too. She walks past the Lost One and into the fire. His jaw drops in shock, though there isn't any gore. She turns to ash almost instantaneously. As the Keeper of Truth and Order, Judge of Souls, Rey isn't interested in causing more pain than necessary. The dead have already suffered enough trauma.

The last arrival is too young to walk. An infant of no more than one harvest season. Connix cradles it close, lips smiling down at the child but eyes welling with tears. As hard as premature souls hit Rey, Connix suffers more; she’d become her juror after an agonizing delivery left her son motherless.

Rey alights from the platform and drifts down to Connix and the babe. It’s an immense relief to find the child’s chest unblemished—unlike the one she’d encountered mere hours ago—though there would be no demand for it; one so innocent has no understanding of right or wrong. They cannot be judged.

With a slight wince, she plucks a feather from her left arm and waves it above the child.

"What are you doing to it?"

His voice is nearer than it should be. She'd been so focused on collecting energy for the Gifting, Rey hadn't registered his approach. "You gave me your word, Lost One."

"You're sending it to the Sublime, aren't you?"

Her patience fizzles. She has no obligation to answer him. It’s draining enough to concentrate the necessary energy to complete the spell. Ignoring him, Rey passes the feather over the child; it watches, entranced. She tickles its belly with the tip and coos at it.

A large hand wraps around her wrist and stills her motions. Rey’s head snaps up to his, anger spiking until it dies at the true concern sliding across his eyes. “Your nose. You’re bleeding.”

“This isn’t easy,” she explains gruffly. “Unhand me.”

He looks from her to the infant, grinding his teeth. “Tell me your intentions.”

“Not before you tell me your name.”

“Ren,” he mutters. “Kylo Ren.”

An angry twang resonates from the scales behind them, eliciting a yowl from the lurking Devourer. Her eyes flit over him and she hums with disappointment. “Just because you wish it to be true doesn’t make it so.” Though he hasn’t given her a true name, and they both know it, she senses it’s an identity in which he’s invested.

Eyes downcast, he asks, “The child?”

“It’s too soon for this one.” Rey caresses the babe’s wrinkled head. “He needs to return, to live a life with choices that can be judged.”

Kylo lets go of her wrist, and Rey gives him a long look before she refocuses her energy, imbuing the feather with her power. Once finished, she holds the glowing feather over the boy whose tiny fingers reach up to clutch it. "May this feather guide you, Small One, back to the path of the light. May your heart stay true until we meet again."

Rey takes the child from Connix and makes her way to the reflecting pool. He chews on the feather, gurgling with delight as her bare feet step down into the water. Wading in thigh-deep, Rey lowers him to float on the rippling surface. The water buoys him perfectly, beginning to churn around him when Rey lets go. One wave spills over the infant; when it breaks, the boy is gone, returned to the mortal world to be born anew.

Connix waits at the rim of the pool with a towel, eyes still red and focused on the placid surface. Rey takes the wrap and secures it over her juror’s shoulders, pulling it tight. She rubs her upper arms, wishing heat was a more effective balm.

"Judicious One—"

“Hush, Connix.” She knows there are more souls. There are always more. “Not now." She glances at Kylo—the man who will not disclose his true name. Something must be done. If the slightest chance he holds the key to unraveling the mystery of the stolen hearts exists, hope does too. The universe can come back into balance; maybe this forsaken war will end.

She takes a deep breath. "You’ve waited long enough, Lost One. Come with me."

This time, when she asks him to follow, he doesn't hesitate.


	3. Chapter 3

"Take my hand," Rey says as they stand outside the engraved, golden door next to the hearth. When he hesitates at her proffered palm, she adds, "Do not be afraid, Lost One. I will not leave your side."

They enter pitch black darkness. There are no windows, no torches, no stars—yet it isn’t suffocating. It feels like all of eternity is in this one room, like it stretches on for ages and ages. There is stillness and silence and peace here.

It's unsettling at first, but Rey squeezes his hand and leads him forward. Once the door shuts behind them, they are engulfed completely and totally in the space which may or may not exist. There is something firm beneath his feet, though he can't compare it with any known surface. Every step is an exercise in trust. Trust there will be something beneath him.

Her hand is warm and sure in his, her touch soothing. Eventually, she stops and whispers, "Sit."

The soft sound rings loud in the silence filling the chamber.

He listens, choosing a cross-legged position, and she flutters down beside him. She places his hand on his own knee and pats it to indicate it should stay there.

"I'm right here with you," she says. "Remember that."

And then her hand is gone and Kylo feels like he's just come untethered from reality, like he's floating away even though that's impossible. He hasn't moved. It's very likely she hasn't moved either, but he mourns the loss of her hand, his only anchor in this vast, empty space.

An odd voice hums in the darkness—a sound of curiosity mixed with patient displeasure. "Most unusual, this meeting is," the disembodied voice observes. "Most unusual indeed."

"Ancient One," she says from somewhere that is both right beside him and just as distant as the stranger. "I am in need of your guidance."

"You've brought darkness here." Another voice echoes through the chamber, more overtly displeased than the first. "I can sense it. Fear. Hatred. Anger."

"Strong, these feelings are in the visitor," the first Keeper concurs.

"His presence is why I’m here," Rey explains, unapologetic. Kylo has the sense she is on equal footing with the voices, even though she addresses them as her superiors. "He is another of the heartless."

The voices rumble with consideration. Rey forges ahead. "That makes forty-seven in the past three months. All devoured. I won’t stand by while it happens. It isn’t fair to the souls who have lived their lives in truth. My duty is to see they attain their rightful place. _Justice_ ,” she emphasizes the word, “is being ignored, and I won't allow it.”

Though lightheaded, his mind strangely disassociated with his body in this place, he can feel the pride and wrath billowing from her. Rey’s loyalty to her position and her cause is admirable. For most of his life, Kylo had given little thought to the Keepers who were said to watch over mortals’ doings. He didn't believe in the stories his mother had told him as a child. If they were true, if the Keepers existed and were meant to watch out for them, then why had he. . .

He lets the thought trail from his mind, unwilling to think about the cruel sneer that has followed him into the afterlife. He’d often hoped when he died, at minimum, he could be rid of that particular ghost.

"What does this soul have to do with it?" The second voice asks with no small measure of disdain. "Why have you kept him from the jaws of fate?"

Kylo’s mouth goes dry, grateful Rey is not so quick in her sentencing. “I won’t lose any more, Wise One,” she declares.

"A proposal, have you?" The Ancient One sounds almost amused.

She takes a deep, steadying breath. "Permit me to find his heart."

"What?" the Wise One demands. "That's preposterous."

Rey is not bothered by the outburst. "When we touched, I saw something. A vision, a clue. Clouded, but there."

Kylo wishes he could see her. There's something in her voice that resonates in his ears, sweet and fierce. It might be hope.

"You're going to go down to the mortal world with only a vague clue?"

Kylo is beginning to harbor a decided distaste for the second Keeper. Rey had come here seeking help. He wants to speak out, to rise up to his feet and rally on her behalf—on his own, too, considering his position in all of this—but a voice filters into his thoughts, his left temple tingling.

 _Trust me_ , it seems to whisper.

He stays put, silently seething.

"Ancient One," Rey appeals again. "This may be our only chance at discovering who is behind the confiscations. Please, grant me the chance."

"Inclined to approve this quest, I am."

"But—" the Wise One begins.

"Neglect your duties, you must not," the other Keeper continues, gently brushing the dissent aside. "A plan, have you?"

"Y—Yes.”

Kylo wonders at the break in her voice. _What could make her waver now_?

"Most dear is the cost which must be paid."

 _Cost_?

"I'm willing." Her voice is firmer than before, resolute where she had weakened. "Give me time."

"Master Yo—" the Wise One starts again, and Kylo's anger spikes until he’s sure he will jump up, ready to fight.

The lilting voice suddenly booms in the silence of the black room, announcing the terms of the agreement. "Five days, have you."

The second Keeper is suitably cowed when he outlines, "One day for each of the elements."

A hum of approval buzzes through the room. "Return, you must, when the sun sets on the day of the Spirit."

"Victorious or not," the dissenter clarifies.

"I will prevail," Rey assures everyone in the room. The conviction in her voice promises she will hold true to her word, though the odds seem impossible.

Five days isn't much. Maybe among the celestial bodies time works differently, but five days isn't even a full standard week on Patagonia. How will they track down his heart and find his murderer in five days? They’ll need to sleep, won’t they?

Rey's hand brushes against his once more and all doubts subside in his mind as he comes back to himself, anchored again. She rises first, pulling him up beside her. Exiting the dark room through the golden door, the light on the other side is blinding. Kylo squints against the harsh brightness.

Rey releases his hand. When his vision is readjusted, he finds her standing near the alabaster altar, her right hand stroking the feathers under her opposite arm. Her stare is unreadable. Kylo doesn’t understand her sudden solemnity. She'd been granted her request from the other Keepers; she should be pleased, shouldn't she?

"What is it?" he asks, stepping closer.

Her palm hovers over a jeweled dagger resting on the altar; the blade begins to glow red as if heating. "I'll need to prepare some things before our departure.”

He hazards forward another step, recalling the conversation from the dark room. “What cost did he mean? The Ancient One?”

Her hand stills and she braces both against the white stone. She shakes her head, keeping her secrets close to her chest. "I need privacy.”

“Rey—”

Her eyes cut up to him. Kylo flinches, remembering all too well the only time he ever referred to the Supreme Leader by his given name. Maybe he’s committed some grave transgression in saying hers, but it’s the truth. Underneath the titles, in her most basic, unadorned form, she is Rey. It's what the people call her.

No chastisement falls from her lips—only a faint, “Please.”

He doesn’t want to leave her, but her white-striped tiger has other ideas. The hulking barrel of claws and fangs stalks toward him, mouth open and drooling. Kylo has no intent on becoming its next meal, though he lingers as long as he can before being threatened into the antechamber with a rumbling growl. As the doors close, he swears there are tears in her eyes.

**—————**

The Devourer’s tail twitches with pride after bullying Kylo from the hall. In the face of what’s to come, Rey is thankful for a reason to smile. She beckons the tiger to her side, scritching behind his ear. “Lend me your strength, friend.”

His response is to nudge her hip, pushing her against the altar. Rey considers jars and other accouterments, steeling herself. She knows what must be done. Removing and setting aside her mask, she plucks a feather from her hair, placing it in a basin of water. She sprinkles in a mix of herbs and adds a quartz crystal to help channel her energy. With the dagger, she pricks her finger, drawing the tiniest amount of blood; it is only the beginning of what she’ll need to spill to descend to the mortal world. She touches her finger to the water in the basin, mumbling a spell to imbue her power as Judge of Souls into the feather. It will stand in her place on the scale and make the judgments she cannot during her absence.

She passes the feather off to Pava, taking up the now white-hot blade from her altar.

"Judi—Mistress. . .” Connix murmurs the intimate title Rey permits for her alone. “Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Little Bird, it isn't about what I want. It's what must be done for the sake of those we look after—for the order of the world."

“What if something happens to you?” Connix wrings her hands. “If you die—”

“Shh. Do not speak it.”

As an immortal, she cannot be destroyed here among the stars; none of the Keepers can be killed. Each is the embodiment of a soul split into parts and cast into functional forms. Lacking a human soul means she requires no sacred organ; no heart beats within her chest. Going to Earth without one risks everything. Should she perish a mortal, she will meet the same fate as the other heartless, contained in the Devourer’s fathomless belly.

“I will return, Little Bird, if you will help me now.” Holding out the blade for Connix, Rey waits until her trembling hands grip it securely, then kneels. The Devourer comes and sits in front of her, lending support. Juror D'Acy arrives with a sacred vessel to collect the feathers once they’re shorn. They need to be fed to the Devourer to ensure they are not misused.

Spreading her arms out and displaying her wings, Rey grits her teeth. "Do it."

With tears streaming down her cheeks, Connix complies. She shears away the feathers on her right arm, starting at the wrist and working up. Though the fiery blade cauterizes the wounds almost instantaneously, Rey feels every scrape against her skin. Stubborn shafts are hacked away with difficulty. Rey almost wishes her juror wasn’t attempting to be quite so careful, as it only intensifies and prolongs the searing pain, which has her seeing stars from squeezing her eyes so tightly. Her forehead twists and turns against the Devourer’s chest, her right hand gripping fur and skin so viciously even her companion whines in pain.

Meditation is futile. When Connix reaches the tender part of her upper arm, Rey throws her head back and howls. Agony tears up and down her limb, her spine, her face. It would be less painful to amputate her entire arm.

The doors to the hall fly open, and Connix pauses at her left wrist. Delirious, head half-plastered to the Devourer’s chest with her own spit and tears, Rey sees Kylo barrel toward them only to falter in his steps at the scene.

“Leave!” she hears Connix command.

"You're hurting her," Kylo roars. "I didn't want this. I didn’t agree to this."

"Get out!" Rey hisses. Intruding on her sacred rite was enough to stroke her ire, but the audacious notion she’s doing this for him makes her absolutely livid. His selfishness sends righteous fury flooding through her veins. " _Out_!"

Incensed when he doesn’t heed her order, she leverages against the Devourer until she’s standing and fixes him with a glare that could fell kingdoms. “You wanted to know the price of my decision? This is it.”

Rey grabs the dagger from Connix, who pleads, “Mistress, _no_!”

Her spell’s duration period is almost spent, turning the blade from white-hot back to a dull red. Knowing it won’t close her wounds as well, Rey lays the sharp edge against her underarm and drives it down along the shafts of precious feathers in one swift, crazed motion. She holds the Lost One’s gaze until her vision goes black and she realizes the piercing cry she hears is coming from her own mouth, matched with a roar from the Devourer at her side.

The dagger clatters to the ground, her hand slick, coated with blood. Red stains the white fabric of her dress. Squaring her shoulders draws a pained gasp from her lips.

And yet, she’s still standing.

Kylo retreats a step when she pinpoints him among the faces swimming in her watery eyes. “I didn’t ask for this,” he protests weakly. “I only want the man who murdered me to—”

At the mention of his coveted revenge, Rey loses control and channels the remains of her depleted energy into a gush of air directed at his chest. It sends him careening across the hall and through the entryway, sucking the doors shut after him.

D’Acy and Connix close in on her as she laughs in delirium. “Let him rot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided this fic will update on Wednesdays and Sundays. See you soon with the next chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

Kylo paces for what feels like hours. An overflow of confessed souls steadily fills the antechamber until he has to shoulder through the throng to reach her doors once more. Still locked. He beats the sides of his fists against the barrier, desperate to escape the claustrophobic enclave of patient souls behind him, afraid of whom he may encounter.

 _No. He died before you,_ he thinks. _He’s moved on._

It’s what he wants to believe, what he needs to keep from slumping against the doors and crying. Kylo digs into his consciousness to hide beneath his reasons. _He didn’t care. He sent you away. He never supported you._ His master had repeated these facts throughout his youth, and he’d accepted them. Here, even in his mind, he sees these statements for what they are: lies. _You gave him his heart_ , he self-soothes. _You didn’t turn it over._

With effort, he redirects his thoughts from his father’s execution to Rey. He can't wipe the image of her from his mind: the line of red, seared flesh on her arms, the feathers shimmering at her feet like a golden pool. He thinks of the feather she gave to the child before sending it on its way. Her wings must be tied to her power as a Keeper. He’d always found the falcon-headed depictions in her temples fanciful; he hadn’t been fully prepared for the truth of his bedtime stories.

If she’s given up her wings, her godly powers, for this quest, how does she plan to find his heart? What strategy has she devised? What had their shared vision revealed to prompt her into action now?

Kylo remembers what she told the Keepers in the void-like room: this isn't the first time a heart has gone missing. Forty-seven, she’d said. In the grand scheme of things, forty-seven is a paltry number. He’s lost more stormtroopers in a single advance and justified it with the First Order’s inevitable victory. Could each soul weigh on her so heavily it balances against her sacrifice?

He's still thinking about his place in all this when the door unlatches, jarring him.

The blonde woman, Connix, glares from the opening. “The Judicious One bids you enter, but”—her eyes narrow into slits—“mark me: if you wrong her again, I will not rest until you are devoured. Understood?”

He nods, assenting. Connix steps aside without further comment or threat.

When he sees her, Rey’s arms are wrapped in linen. Jagged red lines stain the fabric on either side, though the one on the left is thicker. Without her wings, she still carries herself like a goddess, like someone who has immense power and will wield it when necessary, prompting him to wonder how much she has retained, though he knows it is not his place to ask.

Her sacred tiger snarls at his approach, but she shushes it. Once he’s standing in front of her, she says, "You had no right to see what you did.”

"I heard you scream," he defends. He won’t apologize for his instinctual reaction to seeing someone in pain.

“You may well hear me scream again before we’re through,” she returns. “What I need you to understand is I will ask for your aid if I require it.”

Before he can respond, she inclines her head in the direction of the bottomless pool. "There is one last ceremony to perform before we go."

When she turns, she expects him to follow her. His hesitance is minimal: maybe he was content to wait in her halls for his killer to arrive, but returning to Alderaan now will satisfy his bloodlust more speedily.

She still clasps the blade in her hand, though it now looks like any other dagger, not an enchanted one. A red ribbon dangles from her other hand. Rey steps into the water, fully clothed. The white dress she wears becomes saturated almost instantly, plastering to her body in a way that makes the tips of Kylo’s ears heat. He follows her in, wading hip deep; the water rises past her navel.

"To pass back into the land of the living, you must be given a gift."

"A feather. . ." He trails off, glancing at her barren arms.

"They are only meant for those light at heart," Rey explains. "Though you have no heart for me to weigh, Lost One, I know your soul harbors darkness. It shades your eyes."

She bares her left palm, running the blade down the center, slicing a thin line. Blood seeps out. It isn't deep, but Rey winces. "I give you the gift of my loyalty, my bond. Until we locate your heart and its thief, until our quest is over, I am dedicated to no other task."

Her words are a covenant, perhaps the most sincere vow he has ever heard in his life—and as someone who came from a royal family, who witnessed others swear their fealty to his parents and to the Supreme Leader, Kylo is moved in a way he never was before. Her pledge brings his own palm forward before she asks for it.

She marks his hand to mirror her own, her eyes never leaving his. It does hurt, but his body is written with so many scars this doesn't phase him in the least. When she is done, she presses their wounds together, dropping the dagger into the water and taking up the red ribbon.

Carefully, she twists it around her ring finger, then threads the string between their fingers before circling his in a similar loop. Wrapped together, they form an infinity symbol. She secures the ends of the ribbon loosely around the backs of their hands, bringing their palms as close together as possible.

Rey mutters an incantation under her breath, and Kylo feels warmth spring up between their hands. Light shines from them, pink at first, then a brilliant white. The wind picks up, stirring the loose hairs around their faces. It makes the water lap around their bodies, swirling with an almost vicious current.

Rey's eyes snap open, pupils blown wide and filled with a light he can’t quite meet. Her voice sounds alien when she instructs, "Breathe."

Kylo barely has the time to heed her order before they are both sucked under the water with a violent tug. Everything goes dark.

**—————**

It's like she's an infant being born, but without the arms of another being to catch her. Disoriented, Rey flails and splashes into a swift-moving body of water. Everything feels overwhelming and strange. Swept away by the bullying current, she half floats, half sinks in the water, trying to direct herself toward the riverbank.

Eventually she rounds a bend and the current breaks apart, slowing enough for her fingers to latch onto reeds growing along the embankment. She doesn’t have the strength to pull more than her upper body out of the water, the wounds on her arms ripping open beneath the linen coverings. Rey cries out, collapsing on the rushes. Humanity weighs heavy on her, threatening to sink her with the slightest shift in the current. Exhausted, she drifts through stages of consciousness, wanting to cry from the over-stimulating sensations assaulting every part of her, inside and out.

**—————**

Kylo sees Rey half-submerged on the opposite side of the river. He hesitates a moment—wouldn’t it be easier to exact his revenge without the Judge of Souls in tow?—but he can’t abandon her. Even entertaining the thought feels like a slight against the Keeper who sacrificed her wings for their quest.

When the current begins to sweep her from the reeds, he panics. Jumping back into the cold water, Kylo powers across the river with long strokes to reach her. He scoops her up into his arms, then wades out of the water. On the ground, he’s relieved to feel her breath on his fingers when he brushes wet hair from her face.

“Rey?” He turns her body to the side, rubbing circles on her upper back, rousing her to full consciousness with soft, reassuring words. They’re in no immediate danger here. It’s better they take stock before moving on.

She coughs a few times, rolling over until she’s flat again. Kylo wishes he still had his cloak, but he lost it and his sword to the river. He averts his eyes from her nearly translucent dress before the image is forever burned into his memory. It may already be too late.

"Do you know where we are?" she asks, voice raspy.

"It's hard to tell from a copse of trees and a river,” he returns, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. “We need to find some sort of landmark."

She begins to push herself up, and Kylo helps her into a seated position, cradling the space at the base of her neck.

"I feel disoriented," she reports. It’s no surprise. He's seen newborn foals stand up more readily than she seems to be getting herself together. "And there's this. . . _hollowness_." Her hand comes to her abdomen, and she scrunches up her nose.

Then he hears it: a growl he knows all too well. He can't help the soft chuckle which escapes him. He’s worried about her drowning; hunger is a simple concern in comparison.

She throws a sharp glance at him, still full of verve. " _What_?"

"Don't you Keepers eat?"

"I have no need for food or drink."

He leans back on his heels and smiles as her stomach issues another loud rumble. "While you're here, you'll need plenty of both."

"You're saying this terrible feeling is hunger?" She grimaces over the revelation.

He sighs. Finding food isn't what he thought he would be doing when he returned to Patagonia. His killer and his heart are out there somewhere, but it seems they'll need to do a few more practical things first.

"Wait here.” As he stands, her hand catches around his ankle, shackling him in place. Almost as fast, she retracts her hand, frowning like she’s unable to comprehend her own actions. But he understands. How many times had he grasped at his father’s pant leg in the same way? His mother’s gowns? A plea to say, _Don’t leave_.

"I'll come back for you, Rey," he assures her. "I promise."

Before she can respond, he steps out of her grasp and off into the surrounding trees.

**—————**

Rey adjusts into a cross-legged position, trying to meditate to distract herself from the sudden loneliness. In all the years she’s ruled as the Keeper of Truth and Order, she’s been surrounded by other voices: the souls, the confessors, the jurors, the Devourer. Even the Void had not always granted her reprieve from the constant noise. What others may find peaceful—a moment of stillness—she finds nerve-wracking.

She does her best to push aside thoughts of abandonment—Kylo said, _promised_ , he would come back. His vow had sounded genuine, and she’s inclined to trust him after their exchange in her hall. _He’ll be back, Rey._

She'd never realized how profound human emotions can be over the smallest gestures. Like the smile in his eyes when he’d commented on her claim of foregoing food. Something within her had reacted to the sight, flooding her with warmth. It's something she already can't wait to be rid of in four days. Giving in to such feelings can only lead to clouded judgment and complications they don’t need.

As she's pondering where her reaction stems from, Kylo disrupts the silence and breaks through the treeline, hands clasped together in front of him. He kneels beside her. “These should help until we find something more substantial.” He slowly cracks open his hands, revealing dark, bead-like fruits.

Rey plucks a few of the round berries from his cupped hand, plopping them into her mouth and biting down eagerly. With her stomach pitching a fit over its empty state, she doesn't care what the things taste like; they are going to supply her body some form of energy, and she can’t ask for more.

She’s pleasantly surprised by the burst of flavor—tangy, but sweet. Her eyes go wide and she chews with more gusto, fingers curling into the remaining gathered fruit and scooping up as much as she can hold. She shovels them into her mouth, pressing her hand against her lips because she’s crammed them in to overflowing.

"Good?" he asks, that warmth-inducing smile lifting his lips and lighting his eyes again. He eats the berries which escaped Rey’s appetite.

She supposes his humor is coming at her expense, but she doesn't mind. Instead, she chews and swallows, humming in contentment. When she draws her hand away, it is stained a red-blue from the juices. Rey feels terrible for wasting even the smallest amount.

A real laugh does escape him now, lancing another electric bolt through her torso. "I thought a Keeper would be refined."

It's strange, but she's feeling particularly impish—mischievous and playful in response to his amusement. Rey runs her tongue over her palm in a long, lingering lick, cleaning off as much of the sticky remnants as she can. She watches him through her parted fingers. His brown eyes are almost black, and he shakes his head at her, teeth worrying his lower lip.

"While I'm in this realm, I might as well enjoy its pleasures.” She circles her tongue along her lips, smacking them in a delighted finish before turning more serious. "Thank you."

"We should go before it gets dark," he returns, ignoring her thanks—almost as if her acknowledging he did something kind necessitates he erase the act from existence. "Or before it starts raining."

She agrees. They shouldn't tarry when time is so precious. As much as she might enjoy exploring some of the new-found sensations she’s experienced, she isn't here to casually peruse the mortal realm—she is here because of her duty to help this man and gain justice for all the devoured souls.

Rey attempts to rise, but her knees wobble. How long will she feel so unsteady in this inferior form? Kylo reaches out to take her arm, but when he squeezes it, she whimpers as the flesh beneath splits again, the scab too fragile. New blood seeps through the linen wraps already ruined—along with her dress—by her time in the river. She circles out of his grasp, placing her hands on his forearm instead.

"I'm sorry," he says, and the apology goes deep, sinking beneath the thoughtless touch to lament the cause. He hadn’t said the words in her hall, but he’s saying them now.

"It's nothing," she says as Kylo moves. “What are you doing?”

He’s crouching down in front of her. That’s what he’s doing. His shoulders are broad, though his body tapers slightly at the waist, evening out at his hips. He has a warrior’s back, strong and muscled. She wonders what scars he carries beneath the black shirt he wears.

“Carrying you.”

Rey shakes her head to rid herself of her errant thoughts. "I still have some measure of dignity, Lost One. I’ll walk."

A finger skirts underneath her dress and finds her foot, stroking a line from toe to heel. The delicate bangles around her ankle tinkle as she flinches, the intimate touch making her breath catch.

"You don't have any shoes," he observes. "The berries come from bramble bushes on the ground. They wouldn't be very pleasant to step—"

He stops talking abruptly when Rey presses her body flat against his, hooking her arms over his shoulders and hiking her knees up his sides. She's assaulted by the warmth of him, biting back a groan. It feels so nice. He clears his throat before snaking his hands underneath her knees to secure them in place. Carefully, he stands, allowing her to settle and adjust into the most comfortable position.

"We'll need supplies," she says close to his ear. "More food. And I’ll need to change these wraps before the wounds get infected."

"Civilization it is.”

She squeezes the curve of his shoulder. "Not _too_ civilized. If someone thinks you're supposed to be dead but finds out you aren't. . ..You wouldn’t want to come across your killer."

“That’s exactly what I want.”

“Lost One. . .” she trails off, lacking the energy to fight his revenge with rationale.

He starts to walk, picking over the undergrowth and pushing aside branches. Rey helps when she can but spends most of her time lost in thought.

She thinks of the heartless dead and of the last time she descended to Patagonia at the beginning of the civilization Kylo mentioned. Things back then had been hopelessly chaotic and wild. Souls had had nowhere to go after death. The Devourer gobbled down all he could, and those who were left—the souls who escaped fate’s jaws—surrendered themselves to a more sinister creature Rey shudders to remember. Her fiercest foe, her antithesis: Palpatine, Keeper of Discord and Chaos.

At the time, he’d slithered among mortals, whispering words of war and confusion, making promises which had no hope of ever being fulfilled, not without strings. Rey remembers watching him from the trees, remembers sweeping down and capturing the Great Snake, lifting it toward the sky, toward her newly erected halls, to face judgement. She remembers, too, how his fangs sank into her leg and how she had released him mid-flight.

She shivers at the memory and nestles her face into the thick thatch of black hair in front of her.

“You alright back there?” Exertion has ragged his breathing, but Kylo doesn’t complain about the extra weight or the effort he’s expending.

A noncommittal sound is her only response. Her eyes are glued to some structure peeking through the trees. “Look.”

Nearly as soon as they come in sight of the two-story farmhouse, something whizzes past her ear, so close it disturbs her damp hair. It thuds into the tree behind them. Rey peers over her shoulder. Kylo remains fixated on the shot’s source.

A deep voice rings out in the twilight. "Don't come any closer!"

—————

 _Stand or retreat_? There’s no chance of employing an offensive approach when they’ve been taken by surprise. He’s ashamed to be caught so off guard. Where was his head?

Kylo calculates the odds of making a run for it with Rey before another arrow can track them down. Not good. Her back would be wide open and a sizable target. He hasn’t carried her all this way for her to become dead weight.

 _Damn it_. He'll have to use diplomacy.

Rays of late-afternoon sun stream through the trees and give him a clear image of the speaker, a man. He's tall, broad-chested and muscular in a way that suggests training. Though sporting closely cropped hair and homespun clothing, his rough edges don’t register as the standard Alderaanian farmer. The hand-carved bow the man wields doesn’t help either; it's a homemade weapon, yet he holds it with an expert’s strength and practice. The string is pulled taut with another arrow which Kylo knows is an act of true effort.

"We're unarmed," Kylo states. "We mean you no harm."

"We'll see," the man responds. "Rose?"

She appears from the left, her green poncho and brown pants blending into the underbrush. Kylo hadn't heard her approach, hadn't sensed her presence at all, and that rattles him much more than the short woman with jet-black hair holding a knife aloft in a defensive grip.

"Put her down," Rose commands.

 _How are we going to play this?_ he thinks, trying to come up with a plausible cover story which will make them as non-threatening as possible.

"Please. . ." he starts, turning to put distance between Rey and the knife. “Please, my wife doesn't have any strength."

A sudden stinging smack lands just above his ear, making him jerk his head away.

"I'm strong enough to stand," Rey protests, now shoving at his shoulders as if wanting to prove it. He hesitates. "And don't call—"

He releases her unexpectedly. An indignant cry falls from her lips as she drops to the ground. "Ow."

The next slap is on his rear, and he all but yelps at the surprise. "How dare you," Rey grumbles as she pushes to a stand, wiping dirt from her dingy dress.

"Stop moving!" the man calls out again, and for the first time Kylo hears a note of fear in his voice. Fear and weapons do not mix well in his experience.

"Rey—" he warns. She tilts up her chin to meet his eyes. Kylo does his best to plead with her, willing her to understand they are at the mercy of strangers here, _armed_ strangers.

Rose shuffles closer, shifting her grip on the knife. Light glints off of the point. "Turn in a circle," she orders. "Slowly."

Kylo goes first, hands up so Rose can get a clear view of him. He wants to make certain she doesn't see him as a threat—hard considering his size.

"Now you," Rose says once Kylo has completed his rotation, flicking the point of the knife in Rey's direction.

Rey’s hands come to her hips. The stance doesn't conceal her irritation in the slightest, but thankfully, she begins to pivot in place. Kylo catches a petulant eye roll and almost cracks a smile. . .until she stumbles. He reacts automatically, reaching for her waist to steady her, circling his arms around her.

"No funny business!”

Kylo glares over Rey's shoulder at Rose, who retreats a step. "My wife is hurt.”

"I told you not to call me that," Rey mumbles into his chest.

Kylo bends his head just slightly, brushing his lips over her hair in what he hopes passes for a reassuring kiss. "Play along, will you?" he mutters, then returns his attention to the other woman. "We’re two travelers who aren’t looking for trouble. Let us pass."

Rose's eyes scan them up and down once more. Her knife dips slightly and her features soften. "There have been more soldiers and vagabonds lately, stealing from the herd, trampling our gardens," she explains. "We can't be too careful. No one can."

Rey’s finger digs into his ribs until he relaxes his arms enough so she can turn. Kylo fights the urge to draw her flush against his body, to have her lean against his chest as she addresses Rose.

"This war has brought many to take desperate measures," she says, tone understanding. "But surely such times call for kindness in even greater capacity?" She extends her arm, palm up in a request. "Help us. Please."

Rose’s eyes skim up from the flat palm to the blood-stained wraps on Rey’s arms. The shift in her gaze is subtle, but clear: acceptance. He’d been raised by a queen and consort, honed by a supreme leader, yet Rey has won favor with only a few words. _Incredible_.

"Finn," Rose half-shouts to her companion. "Put the kettle on."

Rey falls back against him then. Perhaps she was more uncertain than she let on. Kylo gently sweeps her brown hair to one side, kneading the muscles at the base of her neck. He can feel the tension seeping away.

"Come on," Rose says, placing her knife back in her belt and giving them a tentative smile. "Let's go inside."


	5. Chapter 5

The farmhouse smells like pine and rosemary. It’s an old structure with creaky floorboards. It’s been well-lived in—probably a family home passed down from parent to child again and again, patched up through the generations as needed.

The welcoming space sets him on edge. They should be moving on, toward Aldera. Taking the time to stop and rest is a waste. Doing so in the presence of others—especially Resistance supporters, judging by the emblematic red bird etched into a stained glass suncatcher—puts them at risk.

Finn walks in front of them, Rose behind. It feels like they’re being led to an execution. Kylo won't let Rey out of reach. Shadowing her as they step inside, he keeps his hand on the small of Rey’s back until they take their seats around a rickety kitchen table.

When both farmers are facing the other direction, he dips his head and kisses her shoulder, growling into her ear: "We'll make our excuses and leave."

She swats him away, leaning forward on the table to watch their hosts bustle around the small space. “Are things really so dire you’ll accost anyone within the perimeter of your farm?”

Finn casts a questioning glance at her. “Just where are you from?”

Kylo sweeps in to cover for her. Exposing their identities could lead to complications. “She’s from beyond Gatalenta. The fighting is less concentrated there.”

Rose butts in with an answer for Rey, placing several ceramic mugs of all shapes and sizes on the table. “We have to fight for what we love. Even if that means being overly cautious.”

Rey pulls on a mug’s handle, gingerly touching the sides before folding both hands around it. She sniffs at the steam wafting up from the purple liquid and smiles gently. "Thank you for extending your hospitality.”

Kylo nods, though he wouldn't call their capture 'hospitality.' He isn't sure what Rey doesn't understand: these two may not be soldiers, but they have aligned themselves with the rebellion. They'll likely be turned over to a Resistance force for questioning if they don't leave soon.

"We won't trouble you,” Kylo starts. “My wife and I just needed a moment to rest."

Finn continues to look at him strangely, assessing every movement he makes or word he utters. It's unnerving. While Kylo wasn't always visible, even more rarely appearing sans-uniform and helmet, he doesn’t look so different from the boyhood prince he once was. Plus, Alderaan had run wild with the rumors of Ben Solo, Queen Leia’s heir, helping Snoke overthrow his own parents.

This man looks at Kylo as if he has an inkling of recognition. Of course, there is no chance to tell Rey any of this. Her fingers trace the grooves in the wooden table. “ _Could_ we trouble you a bit? I'm hungry."

Rose touches a curved pendant at her throat. She clears it delicately, saying, "We don't have much."

"You live on a farm," Rey starts.

Kylo covers her hand with his own. His voice is hard. "They're feeding the Resistance."

Rose nods, proud. “Even though the First Order burned our main field two weeks back, it hasn’t stopped us."

Finn leans in to his wife, lowering his voice yet making sure he’s heard. "I think we should turn them over to Poe."

Rose touches her pendant again as she considers his suggestion, eyes darting back and forth between the two trespassers.

He's seen this ruse before, but he has to admit these two make it feel genuine. Kylo leans back in his seat and crosses his arms, a smug expression settling on his lips. "What is it you want? What's the price for silence?"

They turn their heads from one another to Kylo with wide eyes and open mouths, shocked at being read so easily. Rose recovers first. "Credits," she names. "Lots of them."

Having anticipated her demand, Kylo is already shaking his head: "Not an option. We have the clothes on our backs and nothing else."

"Then we'll have surrender you to Commander Dameron," Rose says, clutching the pendant in her fist.

—————

 _Out of the question_ , Rey responds in her mind. It’s already close to sunset and they haven’t made any noteworthy progress. The threat of further delay is intolerable. What she needs is a way to win them over. The Lost One may be intent on leaving, but having help may make their quest go more smoothly; they need supplies.

"What if I can offer something of equal worth?" Rey questions, an eyebrow lifting. "Information has a certain weight."

"What kind of information?" Finn asks.

Rey doesn't break her gaze away from the woman sitting across the table. Of the two, Rey can sense she is more emotionally vulnerable. It's why she keeps touching the necklace at her throat. It's a tick that gives away the truth: Rose is a woman with deep, aching pain in her heart. If she can help to soothe it, Rey may be able to win her favor and her aid. "I can tell you about the person who gave you that pendant."

"That's impossible," Finn grumbles.

"It's not," Rey fires back, keeping her tone neutral. Her eyes remain trained on Rose whose gaze has flooded with tears.

Finn glances at his wife, stands up to lean over the table, and uses his whole hand to gesture at Rose. "Can't you see you're upsetting her? You can't come into our house and make wild claims—"

"Sit down."

Beside her, the command rumbles like thunder. Rey's fingers curl on the tabletop. She won't break her focus from Rose to glance at the Lost One's face, but there must be quite an expression there—fierce as a storm—because Finn resumes his seat without any further fuss.

Rose is still transfixed by Rey's steady gaze, as if hypnotized by the mere possibility of her words. "You can talk to the dead?"

Rey nods slowly. "I can hear what they have to say."

"This is bantha dung," Finn mutters under his breath, crossing his arms.

Rose is more trusting. She reaches up and unclasps the necklace, twirling the leather string between her fingers before holding it out to Rey. "Please. What’s ours is yours if you can tell me about my sister."

—————

This isn't why they came here. Even if she can communicate with the dead, there's no point to it. It won't get them any nearer to Aldera. At most, it might get them a meal, maybe a place to rest.

"I'll need some herbs from the garden. And a bowl of water, as large as possible."

"Rey—" Kylo starts, but she cuts him off.

Her head snaps up, hazel eyes blazing. "And we'll need some _privacy_." She emphasizes the last word. Immediately, he recalls the last time she made such a request, and his fingers tense.

Finn pipes up his own reservation: "I'm not leaving you alone with my wife."

"Your wife is in no more danger with me than my husband is with you.”

Of course she chooses now to play along with his lie. His fingers pick at her filthy linen wraps, unsure what to do with the change. He wants to say, _I'm not leaving you alone either_ , but he can already picture the eye-roll it would garner.

"We need more firewood." The unexpected statement is directed at Finn.

"Rose—"

" _Firewood_ ," she repeats.

Rey doesn't have to issue a verbal command. He sees it in her eyes. There's something else there too: a question, a request. He thinks she wants him to trust her.

Her words filter back to him, echoing through his mind: _I give you my loyalty, my bond_. He supposes she'd like it in return.

He tilts his head from side to side to crack the tension. Kylo stands, stiff, with his eyes trained on her. While he may be acquiescing to her demand now, he wants to make one thing very clear: "This is a waste of our time."

—————

Rose lets Rey finish her tea while she heads out to the garden to gather the requested herbs. After Rey is done with the lukewarm beverage, she locates a large, glazed bowl and fills it with water from the indoor pump.

Many decades have passed since she's had any need to call upon the dead for information. They are not always the most cooperative. As she prepares her implements, Rey pauses to wonder if she possesses any of her powers in her mortal shell. If she does, will they function in the same capacity?

She hopes, for the Lost One’s sake and her own, that she can do this.

Seated on the floor, she greets Rose with an open palm, inviting her to sit on a pillow stationed on the other side of the ceramic bowl.

Rose passes a bundle of fresh-picked herbs into Rey's hand. "The dandelion’s a bit young.”

Rey lifts the greens to her nose, inhaling the mingling scents. They cleanse her mind, opening up the space for communication to occur. Working in precise motions, she plucks leaves from the stems and drops them into the water. For show only—because Rose must be impressed for this to work and because summoning the dead is a mundane task at best—Rey waves both hands over the bowl of water three times, whispering the names of several stars in a long-forgotten language. The meaningless words dance across her tongue in soft, hissing syllables, and when Rey opens her eyes, Rose is mesmerized.

"Place the necklace into the bowl," she instructs. After Rose complies, she adds, "Give me your hands."

And that is when the real, ancient magic happens. Life forms through a series of connections, webs which establish order. The webs are not so much hierarchies as maps; all creatures exist as a blip in the universe, related in some way to all other points. While they may seem small and insignificant when seen from a distance, they shine brightly and dazzle when the center of attention.

Rey has the ability to see it all in equal weight. No creature, human or otherwise, is any more significant or wondrous than any other. All life, all creation, is beautiful when it abides by the order of the universe. It’s what she strives to maintain, and what the heartless dead threaten to undermine.

Touching Rose's skin establishes the link, and she closes her eyes once more to focus her attention on seeking out the woman’s sister. A feminine energy emanates from the pendant, but she can’t seem to match the exact signature to anyone in the Sublime. There are, however, similar vibration patterns.

"Look into the bowl," Rey intones. Two figures step forward, their arms wrapped around one another.

Rose is quiet. Her breathing grows unsteady. "My parents."

"Don't be frightened."

"They're smiling." Rose hiccups, her inhalations becoming sniffles. "I don't see my sister."

Rey's eyes roll back into her head as she searches deeper. The images are becoming hazy, incomprehensible. Either Rey is misremembering how easy this used to be, or her human form is more limiting than she anticipated. With aid hanging in the balance, she's desperate for a connection. But there's nothing there—nothing there because, Rey determines: "She hasn't moved on."

"You mean she isn't at peace?" The question trembles.

"I mean she isn't there.” Rey closes the connection to the Sublime. "Your sister is still alive."

Rose yanks her hands away. Rey inhales through her mouth, filling her empty belly with air to ease the transition back to the present moment.

"Paige is alive?" Rose repeats, a note of disbelief in her voice, yet it's a hopeful thing. It’s as if a prayer has been answered.

Rey takes up the herb bundle sitting near the bowl and crunches through the leaves and stems. While it will help replenish her energy, it has the added benefit of being odd in a mortal’s eyes. She grins at Rose around a mouth of green. "You can be reunited."

“Keepers be praised!” Rose exclaims. Her beaming smile suddenly fades, face paling. She points at Rey. "Your nose."

Unaware of any issue, Rey touches something warm and wet on the bow of her lip. Her eyebrows raise. Such a simple task should not have resulted in bleeding. She needs to exercise more caution while outside of her celestial halls.

"Are you. . .is there anything I can do?" Rose hazards. "I didn't realize it took such a toll for mediums to connect with the dead."

She could say she’ll be fine but decides it would be better to milk the situation for all it’s worth: food, shelter, information. The Lost One had called this a waste of time and she is determined to prove him wrong. So she gives a little sigh as she wipes away the blood and gives her a dubious truth, "It's taxing, certainly. Maybe if I weren't so hungry. . ."

“I can fix that.”

Rey smiles at her again and takes another bite of the bitter, fragrant herbs.

It’s in that moment she recognizes how easily these mortal lips speak lies.

—————

Never in his life has he been tasked with such menial labor. Even while training as a soldier, he had always been acknowledged as the member of a fortuitous household, though his royal lineage had remained a closely-guarded secret. It didn't mean his bedroll was lined with silk or he rode a horse during long marches, but it did yield a few perks: exclusion from sundry tasks like keeping watch during the pre-dawn hours or digging latrine trenches. His superiors—and later Snoke—were more concerned with him mastering swordsmanship and cavalry tactics. He certainly never had to chop firewood.

Blisters swell in the creases of his palms after the fifth log. It only fuels his anger and resentment, making him swing the ax harder, grunting as it strikes the wood’s flat surface.

"There are better ways of releasing all that pent up tension," Finn remarks as he picks up the split pieces and stacks them in a neat pile. Judging from its size, the couple do not need more firewood for their home. Perhaps they’re supplying it to the Resistance as well, or maybe it’s Rose's go-to excuse to get her husband out of the house.

Kylo huffs, straightening up. He’d heard variations of that line for years from his mounted knights as they rode through cities hosting brothels, from honeyed lips whispering it in his ear when he was too young to resist. He points the head of the ax at Finn. "I don’t think I care for your implication."

Finn's lips stretch into a line as he regards the weapon. "Back off. One shout from me is all it would take for Rose to have a knife at your wife's throat again."

They glare at each other. Kylo’s jaw clenches, biting back a retort as he bends to pick up another log and places it on the splitting block. He brings the ax down with both hands, cleaving the log in two without resistance. The force of his swing embeds the blade in the block, requiring several tugs to dislodge it.

Finn considers him, arms crossed. "You really remind me of someone.”

Unease knots in his stomach, fearing discovery. The last time his identity was exposed, Snoke had found him and whisked him to Mustafar to complete his training as his grandfather would have wanted. Now he was afraid of his master finding him. Not only that—there are just four more sunsets for he and Rey to complete their sanctioned quest.

The Keeper has her priorities, but the only thing he cares about is finding Hux—instinct telling him the conniving general was his murderer—and taking the cur down with him. Kylo will drag Hux by his red hair to Rey's scales to ensure the bastard's celestial comeuppance.

The very thought makes his nostrils flare. His body heats, lips curving in a snarl. He brings the ax down again. And again. And again.

As twilight blankets the farm, Finn goes off to tend the pastured bantha herd, leaving Kylo alone. He's stripped off his tunic and undershirt, tying the latter around his waist and carefully folding the former before placing it on the ground. His pants are damp with sweat, sticking to his legs in inconvenient places and acting as a constant irritation.

He's made it through most of the woodpile when he sees her come from the house, sauntering toward him in fresh clothes hanging loose from ill-fit rather than style. She's cinched things in at the waist with a wide leather belt, but the tunic hits at her hips instead of brushing her thighs. The dark leggings she wears are also too short, cutting off at the calf. It hasn't occurred to him before now just how tall she is: above average for the typical woman.

Then again, there is nothing typical about her, he supposes.

He splits his last log, resting the ax head on the block. His hands throb. His arms ache. His stomach grumbles with hunger. And she—

She's chewing on the skewered leg of some roasted amphibian with a satisfied smile and grease on her lips. The bird with her worm, as it were. Her eyes roam over his bare chest, but she quickly looks up into the encroaching night sky.

If he didn't think it a trick of the feeble light, Kylo would swear her cheeks are tinted pink.

"Rose made a fine meal," she announces.

"I'm so pleased to have been extended an invitation," he returns, sour because he's been toiling away his time and energy while Rey seems to have been catered to and doted on by their rebel host.

She whips her head back to him, perhaps to scold his sarcasm, but diverts her gaze again, this time down at the mud. There is _definitely_ color on her cheeks. _Now, isn't that something?_ A goddess blushing over a mortal’s chest?

Finn’s earlier comment circles his mind, prompting an indulgent thought: What would her cheeks look like if she saw even more? It almost makes him flush in return. _Don’t go there. She’s a goddess, not your wife._

She breaks through his preoccupation, muttering, "You could at least put on a shirt or something. We're trying to be civilized."

It only takes him one large stride to close the distance between them. He grasps her bicep. The blisters on his hands burn, but he refuses to loosen his grip, unwilling to let her slip away when she attempts to step back. Her shiny lips part on a gasp, eyes going wide and glancing down at where he's holding onto her.

He reluctantly moves his gaze away from her glistening lips and realizes the wraps covering her injuries are fresh, smelling of a mix of herbs and oils. Kylo lets go of her just long enough to grasp the hand holding the skewer near her mouth.

"Don't pretend you know anything about what it means to be civilized, _sweetheart_ ," he mutters, leaning in and taking a generous bite of meat, never breaking his eyes from hers.

She squirms and puts a hand on his chest to leverage against him. The touch surprises them both and they split like the logs he just finished chopping: cleanly, falling away in a tumble from one another. The half-eaten limb falls to the ground between them.

There's still a flush of color on her cheeks, but it's not from embarrassment judging by her tone when she scathingly observes, "You stink."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the thoughtful comments so far. I'm excited by your enthusiasm. Next update will be on Sunday!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a long chapter. Posting it now instead of Sunday because I may be without internet tomorrow. Hope you enjoy!

Rey stands by the window in a small room. There aren’t many belongings: a bed resting low to the ground, a clothes chest, a desk with writing implements and other tools, and a woven mat. It’s Paige’s room, one she shares with Poe Dameron, or will share if they ever come back from the war.

A red bird with a white splotch on its breast perches on her fingers, the only form Connix can take on Patagonia. Resting from her flight, her chief juror delivers a troubling report: while the feather she left behind is working, the Devourer is despondent without her and the tally of heartless souls continues climbing.

“I’m coming back as soon as I can,” she says, stroking the white mark.

The door opens and Rey half-turns; it’s the Lost One, hair dripping from a fresh wash, a towel slung over his shoulders and not a stitch of clothing between the towel and his pants. He pads across the room in a slow shuffle, his earlier grumpiness gone. It appears the water washed away his foul mood along with his sweat.

Rey tucks her chin to her chest, heat stretching across her face. Nudity doesn’t bother her—she’s seen souls of every shape and size in all states of dress. There’s just something about _him_. It’s aggravating, the way her body flushes against her will.

“Is that?”

“Connix,” she supplies before pressing a kiss to the juror’s head and whispering, “Thank you, Little Bird.”

Connix hops on her hand, flutters her wings, and then is gone—flying back through the window and into the night in a white burst, bright as a star against the black curtain of sky. Rey watches her go with a sad smile before facing the half-naked man making his way to the bed. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

“I was going to ask why you still are,” he counters.

If it’s possible, more blood rushes to her cheeks. The reaction is absurd. “We’re leaving, aren’t we?”

**—————**

"Leaving?" Kylo repeats, patting drops of water from his chest. He tosses the towel aside. "I'm exhausted.”

There is nothing more he wants than to sink down onto the mattress and succumb to sleep. Not even her glare can change his mind. He's already sore from their hike and chopping wood. A little anger isn't going to make him bruise.

"We've wasted so much time." She begins pacing the room’s short width from the window to the doorway. "We have to find your heart and stop whomever stole it and the others."

"And we will," he assures her, pulling back the quilt. "After we sleep."

"Sleep?"

Kylo rubs the heels of his hands against his tired eyes. "Surely you know what sleep is."

Her pacing increases. "Of course I know what it is. I just don't do it."

"Maybe you didn't need it before," he allows, "but you're human now, Rey. You need to rest or you'll be dead on your feet when it actually counts."

She stops, fists forming at her sides. "These bodies are so fragile.”

"A few hours," he coaxes, laying back against the pillows and making himself as comfortable as possible. He's slept in worse conditions, to be sure, but it's been many years since he's had a straw mattress beneath him.

She considers the bed, knuckles going white. "Where do I sleep?"

There is only one bed. Should he offer it up to a Keeper? Probably. But if he sleeps on the floor, his body won’t be the only sore thing come morning; his temper is still recovering from being forced into manual labor as it is.

They can share. Compared to his bed at the palace, it’s tiny, but he’s certain it can accommodate two people. Rose had mentioned it was shared by her sister and the Resistance commander. If it was good enough for them, it is good enough for Rey and him too.

"The bed," he finally responds, peering at her through the darkness.

"You expect me to sleep with you?"

It's hard to gauge her reaction without any light. "Or the floor—if you'd prefer."

She moves to the foot of the bed, looks at it and the floor alike, then focuses on the narrow space to the right of his body. "You take up the whole thing."

He grins at her frustration. It's true. He's too tall for the mattress, and his shoulders stretch to the edge of her pillow. The fit will be quite snug.

Kylo makes an effort to scoot more to the left, but there's nowhere to go. If he moves over any further, he _will_ be sleeping on the floor.

Rey groans and gives in. She plops down, bouncing a few times and scrunching up her nose in distaste. She plucks at the quilt and mattress like a bird scratching its roost. "It's not exactly a feathered nest.”

"I thought you didn't sleep?"

Rey’s hands still, her gaze focusing on the wall. "There's no time to sleep. The dead come at all hours. Day. Night." She casts an accusatory glance at him. "It's even worse when there's conflict. Wars create endless lines of souls waiting to be judged, waiting for me to send them to their peace."

Images of fallen stormtroopers and rebellion forces—sometimes soldiers from other lands, sometimes villagers not unlike Rose and Finn—flash through his mind. He hadn’t seen them as anything but numbers, gains and losses in battle economics. When had he stopped thinking of them as Rey did, as people with names and lives?

“It must be difficult,” he whispers. “How do you manage?”

Rey stands again and pulls back the quilt. She sinks onto the mattress, still sitting, facing him. He can see the whites of her eyes, the curve of her cheek.

"I meditate. Or go to the Void. It's the only rest I get."

Maybe he's never thought of immortal beings with much regard, but he admires this one: Rey, Keeper of Truth and Order. He feels something else, a sort of melancholy at the way she speaks of her duty. To never rest, even if her godly body doesn't need it, sounds terrible.

"Rest now.” He pats the pillow beside him. "Lie down, close your eyes, and sleep."

**—————**

He makes the act of surrender sound so welcoming with the deep timber of his voice humming softly into the dark room. It's odd, but the blanket of night seems to have muffled everything they do: their movements, their voices, their breathing. Everything is more subdued, and she wonders what kind of magic is at work in a room with two people sharing such an intimate space. It's potent, whatever it is.

Her eyelids do feel heavy. Maybe she will try to sleep, if only for a little while. Her fingers unclasp her leather belt and cast it to the floor, then curl at the hem of her borrowed shirt. Rey begins to pull it up, exposing her taut belly.

"What are you doing?"

There's panic running underneath his question, and Rey pauses mid-removal. She skates her eyes over his bare chest. "You're sleeping shirtless."

He clears his throat. "I am. Yes."

Could it be Kylo finds it as difficult to look at her as Rey does him? "Are you bothered by my nudity?"

It takes him an exceptionally long time to swallow.

Rey's eyes narrow. "You _are_. Why? It’s only a body.”

“Only a. . .” he rubs a hand down his face, then turns it palm-out in defeat. "Do as you wish."

"I will." And, as if it's a challenge, she locks eyes with his right before lifting her top over her head. She's as bare as he is. Kylo struggles to keep his eyes on her face. If not for the darkness, Rey suspects she'd find flames on his cheeks.

Retreating from temptation, he flips over to face the wall. "Goodnight, Rey."

His aversion stings in an unexpected way. What did she want? A sense of victory? "Goodnight, Lost One."

She shifts and places her head on the pillow, closes her eyes, and tries to learn how to let go.

**—————**

She’s awake, but not awake. Mortals would call it dreaming, but it feels too real, too vivid to be something so mundane. Rey remembers the vision she shared with Kylo. This manifests in her mind more completely, though less clear. It's like looking at a mirror fogged around the edges: everything right in front of her is sharply in focus, but the periphery fades in and out of view.

At her feet are dozens—perhaps hundreds—of people whose wraith-like appearance can only mean one thing: these are the heartless souls lost to her, the ones swallowed by the Devourer. They've collected here, at this unknown place, wallowing together.

Their arms swing wildly, attempting to grab her, to reach her. They are a mass of gaping maws and hollow eyes. An asynchronous chorus of "Help us” fills her head to the point of bursting. She clamps her hands over her ears to muffle the sound, but the wailing only grows, cowing her shoulders, dragging her down into their icelike grips.

_Rey. . ._

"Deliver us."

_Rey._

She thrashes free of them, turning away from the horror, fighting back tears. _I want to. I’m sorry. I’ll save you. I’ll try_ , she thinks desperately. She wants nothing more than to grant them peace, to allay their fear and their torment. But their hands will tear her apart if she stays, will destroy her with their terrible pleading, and the only words that fly from her mouth are the truth: "I can't!"

_"Rey!"_

**—————**

Kylo calls her name, forcefully this time. Never has he shared a room or tent or bed with someone who sleeps as deeply as she does. He’s always been easy to wake, alert at any noise. Her whimpers had been enough to rouse him, though his gentle nudges against her back have yet to drag her from whatever nightmare has her hand fisted in the quilt.

When she whines again, it sounds like she’s saying “no,” and Kylo finally shakes her until she wakes with a sharp gasp. Her body goes rigid. “Where. . .?”

Kylo snakes his arm around her torso, and he’s surprised how willingly she relaxes into his embrace. Against his chest, her back is damp with sweat. "Shh," he soothes. “You’re safe.” Rey wiggles closer, until her entire body is flush with his, bringing her hands to his forearm. Kylo does his best to not think about how her breasts brush against his skin. "It was a bad dream."

Her breathing, erratic at first, levels out. Somehow she manages to turn around to face him, keeping his arm draped over her. In the soft glow of the moonlight, he can make out the tears in her eyes, glistening though unshed. "It wasn't a dream," she corrects in a murmur. "I saw them. The heartless. They were being tortured."

“It will be alright,” Kylo whispers, hand rubbing along her spine in comfort. “You can help them.”

“No.” Her lip trembles. “I can’t. Once devoured, nothing can restore them. Even I wouldn’t be able to escape.”

He tries to smile for her benefit. “I don’t think your guard cat would doom you to such a fate.”

“He may not have a choice.”

His smile vanishes. “What do you mean?”

Rey fidgets, tilting up her chin. Their faces are so close on the adjacent pillows their noses all but brush—not unlike in the confessional, except they weren’t half naked then. Her lips weren’t so close.

“If I die a mortal—” Rey stops, brow furrowing. Her teeth hold her bottom lip until she figures out how to phrase her admission. “I have no heart. I’ll become one of you. Condemned to be swallowed and forgotten.”

“Rey—”

She cuts him off. "I want to go now."

"We'll leave at first light,” Kylo insists, gently tracing the dark semi-circles beneath her eyes. “You haven't slept much."

"You think I can sleep now?" she asks, incredulous. "If I close my eyes again, I'm afraid of what I'll see."

The admission is soft, almost apologetic, like she's failed the dead by confessing she doesn't wish to see them in pain and anguish. Kylo shifts his his hand and brushes his fingertips in short strokes against her hairline. Instinctively, she closes her eyes, then opens them again. "What are you doing?"

He removes a memory from the box he's buried in the sand of his mind. "I used to have nightmares. My parents—usually my mother, but sometimes my father—would sit with me and rub away the unpleasant thoughts."

"I don't think it works like that," she mumbles around a yawn as he continues to pet the same spot over and over. Her eyes fall shut again, undermining her own determination to stay awake.

He smiles in the dark. He'd been a stubborn child too. While she's right—the nightmares didn't end—he always slept easier when his parents were there.

"If we're going to work together, trusting me with this might be a start." His whispered delivery lessens the bite behind his words. "Sleep, Rey."

Her hand sneaks between their bare chests to rest against the side of his neck. Instead of stroking his temple, her fingers curl into the thick waves at his nape. Rey’s touch is less firm, testing the technique. "Sleep," she mumbles, head dipping down and nuzzling underneath his chin. Soon, her fingers still.

He tugs out another memory. With some difficulty, he presses his lips to the top of her head, barely moving his mouth to form the words. "Goodnight, sweetheart."

The endearment rolls off his tongue, though there’s no one here to fool. No one except, maybe, himself.

**—————**

The might of the souls is too powerful, and she finds herself in another horrific vision shortly after Kylo wills her into sleep. Prepared this time, she wades through the blurry surroundings and the suffocating emotions of the dream-world, intent on finding the person responsible for keeping these souls in torment. Maybe, if she can find their hearts, she can grant them some level of peace.

As she navigates the sea of writhing, pale figures with their mouths open in silent screams and their hands reaching for her in vain, she sees a throne, golden and twisted. It's facing away from her, only allowing Rey to catch sight of a heavily scarred hand clenched around an unmistakable organ. The figure’s arm stretches down, fist uncurling to offer the heart to a massive black snake slithering around the throne’s base.

She takes another step forward when a soul’s cold hand grasps her ankle, making her gasp.

Rey wakes again in the bedroom at the Tico farm. Her skin is coated in sweat, her breath ragged. She's still curled in the Lost One's arms, though he, thankfully, hasn't woken up. With any desire for sleep obliterated, she starts to extricate herself from his hold.

He stirs: "Mmm—Rey?"

"I just need the 'fresher.” On impulse, she strokes the hair falling across his eyes. It's to get him to go back to sleep she tells herself—certainly not because she wants to caress him.

He doesn't question her, and Rey slips from the bed and dons her shirt, belt, and boots once more. Moving out of the room, she bypasses the 'fresher altogether and goes downstairs. She pumps herself a mug of water, though it does little to cool her heated body. The garden seems to call to her from beyond the porch, and she steps outside. The humidity isn’t as awful as it was earlier, but it seems she’ll get no relief. Wind tickles the hair at the nape of her neck, reminding her of the way Kylo's fingers had caressed her.

It isn't long before the door to the outside swings open again.

She doesn't expect Rose, but Rey's glad it's her. In their short time together, Rey feels she's bonded with the woman who had held her at knife-point less than twelve hours prior.

"I come to the garden too," Rose says with a short yawn, "when I can't sleep."

"You're thinking about your sister.”

"Paige is always on my mind. But I'm worried about Finn too. Soldiers were sighted not far off. He wouldn’t leave me alone with you two here."

"Why would he need to leave?” Rey wonders aloud before stumbling into the obvious answer. “Oh. He defected.”

Rose bites her lip and digs her fingers into the skin of her crossed arms, cocking her head to the side as if debating on how much she can open up to Rey. Before she can speak, a snapping sound whips her head to the treeline.

Rey’s eyes follow hers, glancing up at the tall white trunks sporting lush green leaves all around them. “An animal?” she whispers.

The women step closer to one another as the leaves begin to rustle with force. Multiple figures appear from the treeline, all clad in white armor, making Rey wonder how the dozen or so soldiers managed to camouflage themselves in the trees at night. They should have stood out like cardinals against snow.

Rose's hand finds Rey's wrist and squeezes. Her eyes are locked on the center figure whose armor is different than the others. It shines like silver, reflecting the moonlight like a pool of liquid. Most of the soldiers have short swords sheathed at their waists; the scabbard of the leading figure's sword is slung between their shoulder blades.

As the figure steps closer, Rose's grip tightens around Rey's wrist. "Phasma," she breathes.

**—————**

He can't say exactly how long she's been gone. All he knows is her side of the bed has turned cold and she really should be sleeping. He sits up slowly, drowsy, fantasizing about what he’ll do when he finds her. He'll carry her back to bed and ease her worries with his hands, anchor her beside him with his arms. Legs too, if he must. He smiles a bit at the image of her indignant face, then frowns. He shouldn't be thinking about how he’ll hold her or how soft her skin was pressed to his own. He shouldn’t be picturing how her chest rose and fell in steady rhythm once she'd let go and nodded off.

She's making his leased life damn inconvenient.

Kylo dresses automatically upon rising. Under Snoke’s tutelage, he was trained to be ready at all times and to conceal his identity. After sliding into his boots, he treads toward the ‘fresher. It's no surprise to discover it empty. His next guess is the kitchen—since food seems to delight her so—but it isn't Rey he finds there. "Does anyone in this house sleep?"

The grumpy question earns a grunt in response. "Rose has had trouble sleeping ever since her sister die—disappeared," Finn corrects, pouring steaming water from a kettle into a mug. "Tea helps though. I'm making some for your wife too."

"My wife?"

Finn's head tilts up, brow drawn through with creases. "Yeah. You know: _Rey_? Your wife?"

Oh, this is bad. This is very bad.

Kylo attempts to keep his face neutral and his body relaxed. Tensing now will only give away his lie. Internally, he's cursing himself. There’s a reason he prefers the sword to words: he’s a terrible liar. "Of course,” he responds. “My wife."

Carefully, Finn lowers the kettle to the table. He's shaking his head, finger bobbing in Kylo's direction. His voice is quiet, measured. "You _are_ him. Snoke's apprentice."

He scrambles to save their covers. "I don't know what you're talk—"

"Ren." Finn shuffles toward the kitchen door never breaking eye contact. "Kylo Ren."

Kylo runs his tongue over his teeth, like he's whetting them to sink fangs into the man-who-knows-too-much. Finn glances out the door, then down at the hot, still steaming kettle. Kylo clucks his tongue. "I wouldn't, if I were you."

Finn abides the suggestion, planning his flight path instead. Knocking the kettle to the floor, he clamors for the kitchen door, perhaps intent on exposing the truth to Rose. But Kylo's arms are long and he grabs Finn by the back of his shirt.

Instead of jerking away or turning to strike him, however, Finn goes rigid. He throws up a hand in a stopping gesture, whisper-yelling, "Quiet!"

Confused by the abrupt change in his enemy, Kylo follows Finn's line of sight through the sliver of glass on the door. There in the moonlight stand Rey and Rose, together. In front of them is a small squad of stormtroopers led by a woman in unmistakable armor.

"Phasma," both men utter at once.

Kylo looks down at Finn. His jaw has fallen slack, his breathing comes quick, and his pupils have tunneled. He's afraid. The only explanation that makes any sense to him is: "You’re a deserter."

Finn shrugs out of Kylo's grip, eyes turning cold. "I got out of a war machine that would have chewed me up and spit me out. I was tired of seeing people die."

"She'd kill you on the spot," Kylo says, still a thrum of a threat to his tone. He reaches for the handle on the door.

"If you go out there, she'll kill Rose," Finn pleads. "Might kill Rey too."

Kylo peers again at the stand-off. Finn is right. There is no easy solution to this problem. Phasma would, undoubtedly, drag him to Snoke’s feet. Announcing himself could put Rey at great risk.

It's a new sensation, to feel utterly useless, to fear for someone else's well-being. He’s never wanted to protect someone in the way he wants to protect Rey. It shakes him.

**—————**

The woman beside her trembles—not in the throes of panic or fear, but in rage. Though she may be small, it would seem Rose is not someone to trifle with. Now it is Rey's hand sliding across Rose's vice-like hold on her wrist, soothing her as much as she can with a simple touch.

"The little Tico," a woman's voice calls out through the silver helmet. "Awake at such a late hour?" She assesses Rey. "Not passing along supplies to the Resistance, are you?"

Rose labors through several short breaths but doesn’t respond.

Phasma continues, voice as calm as if she were talking about the humidity brought on by the rainy season. "That's a crime punishable by death. Something you should well know given your sister's demise."

"You're lying," Rose shouts across the space. "My sister is alive."

"Oh?" Phasma counters, tone unchanged. She tilts her head, as if deciding on whether or not to question how Rose has come by this information. She opts to dole out a piercing question: "For how much longer, I wonder?"

Rose starts forward, but Rey intervenes, using both arms to stop her. The wounds beneath her wraps cry in new agony. "You have no weapon," Rey reasons in a low voice.

"I have my hands," Rose states as she struggles to free herself, addressing Phasma, "I'll rip her apart if I have to."

A tinny laugh echoes from the slotted mouthpiece of the helmet. "Feisty as ever, I see. Will you still act the viper after we search your hovel? He can’t hide forever. Deserting carries a death order too."

Phasma gestures with her hand, and the masked troops begin to move in.

"Stop!" Rey commands.

The force of her order causes the soldiers to falter. When Rey advances upon them through the wet grass, strides long and sure, they swerve toward Phasma, seeking further directives.

"Stand aside, whoever you are," Phasma warns, "or suffer the same consequences as the rebel scum."

Rey ignores the warning. She halves the distance, putting herself in the middle of the space with the distraught Rose at one end and the clutch of soldiers at the other. She plants her feet hip-width apart. Her hands fist at her sides.

"You will not search this house," she states clearly. If this woman is with the First Order and they find Kylo inside, it could lead to disaster. What if this person had been involved in his murder? The captain has only said a few words, but Rey has a keen sense for morality: Phasma's is muddled at best.

"You’ve decided your fate." She waves her troops forward. “Join the rebels in oblivion.”

Rey's arms fly up from her sides and extend, as if stretching out to her full wingspan. Though she no longer has her feathers, she can almost feel them unfurl in all their mighty splendor. "You will not pass."

Down here, among mortals, she must channel energy from the cosmic elements around her. Rey siphons it from the dewy blades beneath her feet and the wind’s hot breath, from the flame of rage licking up from Rose and the scent of the soil and trees, from the moonlight and the whispers of the leaves. Rey focuses the energies into one command, directing it at Phasma and all of the confused figures waiting to advance or retreat with a word.

It is Rey's aim to steer that word.

"Recall your troops, Phasma. There is nothing for you to find here. There are no rebels. You will leave immediately. Never return to this farm."

For a long moment, the air around them is heavy, thick with silence. When Phasma speaks, she repeats Rey’s words in unwitting agreement. "Cease your advance. There is nothing, no rebels to find here. We will leave immediately. There is no need to return."

Rey continues to concentrate the tunneled energy at the squad until they have melted once more into the forest and gone. Long after they are out of sight, nothing moves.

Rey swallows, her mouth dry. There's something warm running over her lip as she smiles. Whatever the cost, it’s worth it. Rose and Finn are safe; she and Kylo can continue on their journey. Order has been preserved.

**—————**

They watch the stormtroopers and Phasma disappear into the trees. For several minutes, neither of them moves, convinced the squad will return. When they don’t, Finn's hand twists and yanks on the knob, flinging open the door so he can barrel out of it at a sloppy, flailing sprint.

Kylo walks.

"Rose!" the man calls out in a breathy shout. At least he isn't idiotic enough to genuinely yell. None of them would benefit from Phasma’s reappearance.

His wife barely has the chance to brace for the human wall which hits her. Though the force is enough to knock her from her feet, Finn's arms have already locked and secured her within his embrace. Rose responds with a cry of relief that is equal parts elation and release.

He's never seen two people so in love, not even his parents at their happiest. It's a bit sickening—how Finn presses kisses to every reachable part of Rose's face, how he whispers platitudes to the heavenly bodies above them. They are ecstatic.

 _Alive and in love_ , he thinks. Two things he will never be again, though he’d never experienced the euphoria of the latter while living either.

As he shifts his gaze to Rey, she’s observing the couple with keen interest. Across the distance separating them, a smile shines from her face. Something invisible and sharp slides through the slot between his ribs, hot and quick. She has such a beautiful smile. He’d first noticed it in the Hall of Judgement, as she’d sent souls into the Sublime with a small token of her radiance. It’s a covetous last image.

As she regards Kylo, the wistful smile fades.

What was she expecting? Was she hoping he’d embrace her with such open relief? Or affection? His fingers twitch at his side, wanting to reach for her. Maybe he will. He should. If only to assure himself she’s uninjured, he should let his hands roam free.

As he makes to step closer to her, Rose manages to emerge from her husband’s cocoon. Crossing in Kylo's path, Finn's hand clutches at her shoulder. He won’t let her venture too close.

"Rey, what was that? How did you—?"

Kylo wants to know as well. Does this mean Rey still possess her godly powers? Moonlight shines on her face, and he freezes at the sight: tracks of blood trickle beneath her nose. She’d bled like this when returning the infant’s soul to Patagonia. Whatever she’s done, it wasn’t easy.

Before Rey can offer any explanation to Rose, Finn jumps in. "They aren't who they say they are, Rose. They're frauds. Dangerous ones."

"What?"

Finn points at him, accusation dripping from his words. "That's Kylo Ren of the First Order."

Rose gasps. "Snoke's apprentice?"

"I told you he looked familiar. I told you he was bad news. We're lucky he didn't murder us in our sleep!"

"I've never killed anyone who couldn't defend themselves," Kylo argues. His eyes go wide. Why is he justifying his actions to peasants, no less rebel supporters? He doesn’t care if they think him the bilge of the earth.

"Ha!" Finn contests, stepping in front of Rose to square off with the apprentice to the Supreme Leader. "You're a liar too. Everyone’s heard how you murdered your father."

Kylo's hands go tight at his sides, balled into fists. He volleys back: "It was an execution."

"Is it true?”

The whispered words land like punches. Kylo inclines his head past the couple. Rey's tears shimmer in the glow of the moon. He isn't sure if they’re tears of anger or sadness until she stomps at the ground, grinding blades of grass beneath her boot.

"Is it true you murdered your father?"

Kylo sways backward, as if he may choose to run from her quiet fury instead of face it head on. His training as a soldier keeps him in place. Running begs punishment. "It is.”

"How could you not tell me?"

The bite of betrayal clips each of her words. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on what drove him here, what his mission is. As with the Ticos, he shouldn't care what her opinions of him are. He's here to find the man who killed him and employ his brand of justice.

The only thing is, he _does_ care what she thinks of him. His eyes snap open at the revelation. He doesn’t want her to label him a liar and a murderer. _But it’s who you are. She should know the truth._

Advancing forward, he challenges her. “What should I tell you, Rey? All my misdeeds?" He steps into her space, hating the way his tone softens against his will. During his life, he'd spit venom into the faces of men and women both for questioning his authority. With Rey, however, he finds it physically impossible. Next to her, he feels small. "Do you wish to judge me now? Here? As the heartless thing I am?"

She's shaking. More tears stream down her face. Her eyes are narrowed, her jaw clenched. In equal parts pain and anger, she utters, "I don’t need your heart to see that you're a monster.”

If she’s decided this, what is the sense in arguing? Now she’s seeing the truth of whom she’s chosen to help. Kylo’s eyes shift, back and forth, across her own. "Yes. I am."


	7. Chapter 7

They’re forced to leave. Finn won’t let them in the house, and Rose won’t meet Rey’s eyes. It’s like they’ve circled round to their initial encounter with the couple, except their weapons are their disdain and their hurt. For Rey, the latter cuts as deep as a knife. In less than a day, she’s betrayed mortals for personal gain, has lied to advance her goals. No matter how noble her reasons, the misdeed sits heavy in her chest.

Between Rose and Finn’s silent treatment and Kylo’s brooding stare, Rey could scream. She’s here to keep the world in line, to stop the onset of chaos. Or, rather, the return of it. Did these people know nothing of their history? Did they wish to call the next Dark Age into existence, to restore Palpatine and his lawlessness across the kingdoms?

It feels like everything is working against her.

Without speaking to anyone, Rey turns and trudges off. The Ticos are justified in their anger; she’d brought a terrible man to their door and put them in danger. As for the Lost One, if he can’t be honest with her, she’ll see this quest through alone.

As soon as the thought pops into her mind, the thin scab on her palm blazes. Rey ignores the warning and pushes through the trees, heading for the road.

It’s only then she realizes _he’s_ hot on her trail. Kylo stops in front of her and raises his hands. “Rey—”

Even in the early light she can see it: the corresponding mark on his palm, red and close to splitting. Though hardly enough to be called wounds, if Rey breaks her word, they’ll open and bleed until there’s nothing left. She’ll condemn them both.

A snarl of frustration leaks past her lips. “I don’t want to speak to you.” She hates how winded she sounds, but she used considerable energy to change Phasma and her contingent of soldiers’ minds. In this form, she doesn’t know how long it will take to recover her stamina.

He lowers his hands, stricken, though he’s quick to cover it with a glower. “Fine. But our destination lies north. Not west.”

Her eyes follow his arm to the mountains on their right—another obstacle to surmount, though this one isn’t nearly as daunting as sorting out where they stand in their partnership. One thing’s for sure: she isn’t going to leave her back open to a murderer. Rey waves him forward. “You first.”

No other words pass between them until sunrise.

**—————**

From the Ticos’ farm, Aldera is a half a day trek by foot in good weather. During the middle of the rainy season, when water saturates the ground and turns dirt roads to mud, it’s a hazardous journey at best. As they approach the base of the mountains hiding Alderaan’s capital, Kylo addresses her from over his shoulder: “The road’s too dangerous from here on. Stormtroopers will be posted. We should keep to the woods.”

It’s a wise choice; they are still unarmed and Rey’s strength has yet to fully return. She nods her assent but doesn’t speak as they enter the old growth forest hosting trees almost as storied as she is. What does she say to him after the revelation he killed his father? After realizing he, as a First Order commander, has sent multitudes of souls to her halls? She can’t reconcile such a contemptible creature with the man she’s known for the last day—the one who breached her hall when he heard her scream, who scavenged berries to satisfy her hunger, who blushed at her nudity, who held her close after her upsetting vision and whispered her to sleep.

_Can a soul be split so deeply_? Another, more sinister, thought boils to the forefront: _Does he know more than he’s telling about the heart thefts_? Rey doesn’t want to consider the possibility. Would he willingly sabotage their quest by withholding information to seek his revenge? Did he even care about finding his heart?

As the sun’s rays filter through the thick canopy, they stop for rest and water at a creek. Rey decides to break her silence. She has to know more, even if she will detest his answers. “Why did you hate—” she starts. “Why did you hate your father?”

The water cupped in his hands leaks through, never touching his lips. “I didn’t hate him.”

It has to be a lie. She bristles. “Tell me the _truth_.”

“Can’t your mortal ears distinguish between truth and lies, Judicious One?”

Anger and confusion scratch at the back of her throat. “Why did you kill him?”

Kylo stands, looming like the day he stood before her confessors in their amphitheater, imitating the towering trees. “You never had parents,” he deflects. “You wouldn’t understand what it is to be sent away by your own family, to be abandoned.”

Rey rises too, just out of arm’s reach. “That doesn’t justify _murder_.”

Kylo’s eyes dart around the foliage, at the ground, at the water. If he’s unwilling to face what he’s done, it’s over. Is she attempting to save the soul of man doomed to burn in her hearth for his crimes? Rey wants to press her fingers to his temple again, to extract the memory and evaluate any guilt he may carry. Remorse is the only thing that can save him. Instead, she remains rooted where she stands, waiting for him to choose.

“My father acted the hero when he should have fled.” Kylo swipes sweat from his brow, grits his teeth like he’s facing down the tenuous moment anew. He still avoids her gaze. “If he’d gone with my mother, if he hadn’t wasted his breath to say he loved me, he’d be hiding out in Gatalenta too.”

“So you killed him.” Rey’s nails score her palms. She shakes her head furiously. “ _Murderous snake_.”

“I—” Kylo starts, wet eyes finally casting across hers. His jaw is locked in place, as though, if he bites down hard enough, he can will away his tears. “I didn’t _want_ to kill him. Imprisonment was enough.”

Rey sniffs. Is unending captivity any better than a death sentence? Some would claim it’s a crueler fate. In spite of her distaste, she acknowledges one thing: his voice rings with sincerity. He didn’t wish to commit patricide. It’s something. Keeping her voice as neutral as possible, Rey asks, “What changed?”

“Snoke,” he whispers, the ‘s’ dragged into a hiss. “Once a year, he commanded my father to disclose my mother’s location. For five years, my father refused.”

Rey squints. “Five years? But you said your mother was in Gatalenta.”

He nods.

“You knew?”

Kylo runs a hand through his hair, shifting his stance. His fingers rub along the left side of his jaw, relaxing the muscles through might. “It may be the only thing my father and I had in common: our loyalty to her.”

**—————**

He’s spent so much of his recent past thinking about his father, he hasn’t dwelt much on what became of his mother after the deposition. He’d never wanted her blood, only her power. Leia had exercised so little of it during his youth, and Alderaan deserved more. Snoke had assured him, under the First Order’s rule, his birthright would know no boundaries. The kingdom would grow into the glorious empire his grandfather had started to construct with his armies and vision. Kylo had wanted to see that dream come to fruition. He’d planned to surpass it.

Had he been wrong from the start? After Kylo had helped Snoke install the First Order into power, he’d come to understand his master had honed and twisted him for his own benefit. As soon as Snoke was seated on the throne, he turned to General Hux with more frequency, leaving Kylo out of strategic meetings, cloaking his goals in secrecy.

_All will be revealed when you have proven yourself, young Master Ren_ , he’d promised.

Rey’s voice startles him from his reflections, and Kylo finds her standing closer than before. “What happened after the five years?”

Kylo breathes deeply, centering himself back on their conversation, requiring him to relive his weakest moment. “My master signed Han Solo’s execution order at the final refusal. I carried out that order. Only—”

“Only what?” Rey says it like everything hinges on what follows next. She’s standing so close now he has to tilt his head down to meet her gaze.

He wets his lips, eyes flicking back and forth across her features. If he hadn’t failed in his task—if he hadn’t let his emotions get the better of him—he wouldn’t be in this predicament. “Only I couldn’t turn over my father’s heart.”

“Snoke wanted his heart?”

“A sign of fidelity, so he claimed.” _It was your chance to prove yourself, and you squandered it._

“Lost One.” Her fists bunch in his tunic, her grip stronger than he expects. ”Was your master collecting hearts?”

Restrained in her hold, Kylo can’t run from her question, though he can’t provide her with the answers she desires. “I don't know. If he was, I wasn't privy to his plans.”

When her expression shows signs of doubt, he takes her hand in his and raises it to his face, pressing her fingertips to his temple. He marvels at how her whole hand fits within his. “Look for yourself, Rey. Search for what you think I’m hiding.”

The tension goes out of her arm, and she slides her hand from his grasp, trailing it down his neck and resting it on his shoulder. “There’s no need. I trust your words.”

He’s dubious of her easy statement. _What changed her mind_?

As if reading his thoughts, Rey’s mouth curves up in a confident smile. Her fingertips gently touch the delicate skin just below each of his eyes. “The truth is here. They gleam like bronze when you mean what you say.”

“Rey. . .”

Her gaze drops to his lips as he murmurs her name. Heat collects at the back of his neck and spills over his shoulders, down his chest, burning a path of red into his lungs. Desperate for air, he inhales but only succeeds in drawing in her scent—rosemary and honey.

Her eyes haven’t left his mouth. She sways forward, pressing up on her toes. _Is she going to_. . .?

A noise in the distance yanks them both from the moment, pulling their attention to the possible threat. Kylo delicately extricates himself from her grasp, almost apologetic for breaking their connection. “I should go see what’s out there.”

“I won’t be able to ward them off like Phasma,” she replies. “I don’t have the energy.”

He nods in understanding, impulsively tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. Belatedly, he realizes how hard he’s pushed her all morning, making her walk so far and at a demanding pace. It’s something he’s accustomed to given his military training. She’d had so little sleep the night before, too. Still, Kylo’s impressed by her lack of complaint, especially considering they’ve skipped breakfast and lunch.

“You need to eat something.” They both do. Another snap breaks through the quiet, farther away but still too close to ignore. “I’ll make this quick.”

**—————**

Rey’s stomach growls low. She hadn’t noticed her hunger until Kylo pointed it out. The arduous hike and her preoccupied thoughts were enough to keep her from recognizing the hollow pangs in her stomach. Now, though, she feels them acutely.

She looks around for something to snack on. If the Lost One had found berries for her after their perilous arrival in the river, Rey’s sure she can alight on some small snack to keep her going. At least something to wet her lips and slake her thirst with sweet juice.

There are hidden gems among the forest flora and fauna. Life teems in buds and blooms all around her feet. After a few minutes, she locates what she needs: small black berries hanging in succulent bunches at the end of broad green leaves.

Rey picks the berries and pops a few into her mouth, noting the flavor is different — sour, or bitter instead of sweet like the ones before. They really aren’t the most pleasant things she’s ever tasted, but they’re at least _something_ to make her forget how hungry she is.

She finishes the rest of what she picked, tossing the stem in the stream and taking a long drink of water to wash away the taste. While her stomach growls over the pitiful offering, she doesn’t think she can force down more of the berries. Rey will have to hope more substantial food is close at hand.

When Kylo emerges from the underbrush, he smiles and motions for her to follow him. “It was nothing,” he reports. “A family of Loth-cats.”

Rey joins him by the trees, stretching. The muscles in her legs quiver, not used to so much exercise. Not for the first time, she longs for her wings. It would make traveling toward the city a breeze. “How much further?” she asks as they begin to walk again.

He hums over the question, calculating. “A few more hours before we start to descend into the valley. If we push hard and the weather holds, we should reach Aldera by nightfall.”

She groans over his estimate, though she embraces the thought of heading downhill. At least it will be easier.

The sun climbs higher and more robust, beating down on them; at this altitude, the sparse trees provide little shade. Rey lugs her tired legs over rocks and branches, each obstacle becoming more of a task. Sweat beads on her forehead and drips from the tip of her nose.

“Lost One,” Rey calls, throat dry. When did he get so far ahead of her? He stops and glances back, as surprised at their distance as she is. “I know you think Snoke has your heart, but we can’t assume. If we’re wrong, it will cost us precious time.”

He seems less than focused on her statement, eyes assessing her from head to foot. Finally he asks, “Where can we find confirmation?”

She huffs, short of breath despite standing still. Up here, the air is thinner and harder to take into her lungs. “Your body. We need to find it.”

He nods, drifting closer. “I don’t remember where I died, but I know someone who might.”

“At the palace?”

“No.” Kylo uses his shirt cuff to blot the perspiration from her hairline. “If you want to know anything about anything, you go to a tavern.”

Why does she feel so wilted when he appears unaffected by their hike? _There’s something not right_.

He senses it too. “Rey, what’s wrong?”

His words make her sink onto a nearby rock. What is it with these stupid human bodies? How do the rest of them manage to survive on a planet that is so unforgiving? Why do they fight one another when nature and their own biology seem intent on killing them off without any outside help?

“I’m dizzy,” she tells him, voice breathy. “And my stomach’s in knots.”

Kylo nods at her self-assessment, but his lips are still set in a frown as he watches her. “You need to eat something.”

Rey winces at the mention of food. Her gut’s rebelling as it is; ingesting anything now would probably make her vomit. “I did. By the river.”

“ _What_?”

**—————**

In seconds, he’s on the ground in front of her. His thumbs pull at Rey’s eyelids, trying to see if her pupils are dilated, but she bats him away before he can get a good look. Frustrated, he growls, “What did you eat?”

“Does it matter?” she asks, pushing at his chest. “I was _starving_.”

He realizes then she has no idea. How could she? How would a goddess know what things were safe to eat and which ones weren’t? Though his first reaction was anger, he softens his next words. “It’s important.”

“Berries. Like the ones you gave me. Except they tasted awful. I didn’t think you’d like them.”

His minds spins. _Stars, no_.

“Those were carrion crowns,” he explains gravely. “They grow all over Scavenger's Wood. They’re toxic, Rey.”

“ _What_?” It’s an echo of his question, weaker, haunting.

He touches her hair, lets his hand trail down her neck. He can’t meet her eyes. “I thought you realized, when I wasn’t stopping to eat them, they weren’t safe. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t say that,” she hisses. “Don’t make it sound like I’m dead already.”

“Rey—”

“I can’t die like this. Not as a mortal. Promise me. Tell me I’ll be fine.”

He can’t lie to her, not even to comfort her. “How many have you eaten?”

“I—I don’t know,” she stammers. Her breathing has gotten worse. “A whole bunch.”

_Kriff_. He doesn’t want to scare her by telling her the odds, so all he says is, “Can you walk?”

He holds out his hand to help her stand. She’s less steady than before, though her lips are set with determination. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t tell her of the danger, doesn’t tell her the poison is likely eating away at her from the inside. He laces his fingers through hers, tugging her along. Every hundred feet or so, he has to encourage her: “Faster, now.” They’re still losing speed.

As they crest the mountain pass, her fingers go slack in his grip. “Lost One. . .”

They’re still more than a mile from the hillside tavern. They aren’t going to make it.

He turns to find her face white with purple lines webbed on her lips. Her eyelids are hooded, drunk with bad blood. She’s panting. Shock brews in her gaze as she realizes the severity of what’s happening to her.

“I can’t—” Rey chokes on the words, “breathe.”

If he could share the air from his lungs, he’d press his lips to hers now and give it freely. Instead, he slides his arm underneath her legs and sweeps her fully into his arms. He’s carried her once. He’ll do it again, even if he can’t have her cooperation this time.

“Stay with me, Rey,” he begs.

**—————**

The world around her spins in a storm of verdant greens and earthy browns. In between his labored breathing, Kylo speaks to her. She thinks he may be trying to tell her something important from the way his fingers dig into her thigh and the meat of her arm, though she can’t make out what he’s saying.

It’s like she’s caught in a wind vacuum yet can’t inhale anything except violence. Things begin to lose their color. Darkness crawls in at the edges, slowly encroaching on the center.

_Will it hurt to be devoured_? Rey thinks. She’s seen countless souls swallowed up by fate’s jaws, but she’s never dwelt on what they experience as the Devourer closes his giant maw around them and they slide into the Nothing.

Will it be dark there, like the blackness erasing everything around her? It’s starting to look like she might find out.

**—————**

Maz Kanata’s tavern looks more like an aging fortress than a place serving Alderaan’s largest variety of gastronomic treats ready to appeal to beggars' starving bellies, soldiers' unquenchable thirsts, and royals’ refined palates alike. Though a good distance from Aldera, in all the time Maz has tended the place, it has never been without a constant stream of patrons.

The guard at the gate shifts her spear in hand, a signal he is not to cross the threshold. Her eyes fall upon the girl in his arms, and Kylo hoists her up a little higher, arms screaming. It isn't so much her weight as the distance he's carried her causing the strain.

"State your business.”

He can't reveal who he is to this woman, though his business should be clear enough. Allowing Rey's feet to drop to the ground, he cradles her against him as he awkwardly removes a ring from his pinky. "Take this to Maz."

The woman extends her hand for the token, and Kylo deposits his father's wedding band in her grasp. With another look at Rey, she nods and says, "Wait here."

Kylo kneels on the path, pressing a hand to Rey's chest, but he can't feel anything. He leans over her, his hair tickling her face without eliciting so much as a twitch from her eyes in response. The breath he feels on his cheek is shallow and quick.

"Hang on, Rey," he whispers, sweeping her sweat-dampened hair aside and pressing his lips against her forehead.

Maz Kanata's legs are short—shorter than any other person he's ever met in his life—but when it counts, they carry her swiftly enough. Even her guard, easily twice Maz's height, has to rush to keep up.

Kylo and Maz lock eyes for a brief, trembling moment, and then Maz's gaze shifts to the dying girl in his arms. "Enfys, bring her."

The guard makes ready to carry out the order, stepping forward to scoop Rey up. Kylo growls out a helpless, "No."

Maz gives him a stern glance. "You can barely stand yourself. She doesn't have time to waste."

The truth of her words hits him like cold rain, and he finally relinquishes Rey into the others’ care. He'd brought her here because there was nothing more he could do for her; he brought her here because he knows Maz is her only chance at surviving the carrion crowns’ disastrous effects; he brought her here because he needed help.

He needs to accept what he's sought.

Maz is halfway through the courtyard—Enfys, with Rey in her arms, walking at a fast clip behind the tavern owner—when Kylo manages to stand on shaky legs and follow after them.


	8. Chapter 8

He's never been to the bottom of the spiral staircase. When his father brought him along to Maz's tavern, Han would leave him with his uncles—neither blood relatives—prior to descending the stairs. All Kylo knew was when his father would return, his steps were heavier, his face carrying less of his trademark smirk. The association cemented in his young mind: whatever lurked at the bottom of Maz Kanata's staircase was nothing good.

Turns out, there isn't much there. They pass through a large, almost cavernous, space housing extra barrels of liquor and ale. In some lanes stand labeled crates stacked three high, some in languages he recognizes, and others he can't decipher. There are no torture implements or weapons strewn about, as he used to imagine.

Beyond the vertible warehouse is a small room containing a bed, a fireplace with a chimney that reaches through the ceiling, a chair, and a split barrel functioning as a table. A place for stowaways.

Enfys places Rey on the bed, then bends over to listen to Maz's whispered instructions. She nods once, then leaves.

"Please, help her," Kylo pleads, hand against the wall for support. A tingling sensation runs through his arms as he regains the feeling lost while carrying Rey through the forest to the tavern. "She ate—"

"Carrion crowns," Maz finishes knowingly. She is already pulling back Rey's eyelids to check her pupils. "The only time I've seen it worse than this is when they're dead."

"She's still alive," Kylo states with authority. "And that's how she's going to stay."

"All that's left is hope."

Enfys returns with the items Maz requested: a glass of water, a tiny block of charcoal inside a bowl, and a spoon. Maz breaks apart the charcoal; it crumbles easily beneath the spoon, turning to black ash in the bowl. Tilting the glass of water, she pours in a splash, then mixes until a thick paste forms.

"Open her mouth.”

Kylo sits on the edge of the mattress, taking Rey's forehead and chin in his hands. He coaxes her jaw open easily, and Maz spoons a good helping of the wet charcoal into the back of her throat.

Immediately, Rey coughs to try and dispel the obstruction, but Kylo closes her jaw and tilts her head up from the pillow as Maz rubs her throat to encourage her to swallow. Rey's eyes flutter open, head thrashing to free itself. Kylo shifts, lifting her up and holding her against his chest, one hand keeping her head secured under his chin. There's more coughing, the sound thick with the expectorant.

"Fight,” he breathes. “You have to fight it, Rey.”

In all his life, he’s never begged the Keepers of Mortals for anything. Not when he was a child hunted by Palpatine’s followers, nor as a boy far from home among strangers. He hadn’t asked for strength to defeat his enemies in battle or the power to live up to his grandfather’s legacy. Never had he left a temple offering or sought forgiveness and atonement at the feet of statues.

That was before—before he had Rey in his arms, sick and pale and trembling. If she dies. . .he can’t bear the thought. _You should have warned her_ , he thinks, mouth gaping in a silent cry as he pictures the Ancient One, the Wise One, and all the Keepers he remembers from his childhood. He calls on them all now.

“Please—” he sobs. It’s the only word he can push past the stone in his throat.

Rey’s body jerks violently, bringing him back into the moment.

“Over the side,” Maz says, sliding a bucket next to the bed.

There’s barely time to position her before she begins to retch. Kylo holds back her hair and strokes the side of her throat, her shoulder, murmuring, “Good girl. Get it all out.”

It takes several minutes for her body to quiet and her breathing to normalize. Maz uses a wet cloth to wipe away her tears and drool. Already, he notices some color returned to her cheeks. Kylo leaves her in bed, tucked beneath a rough, woolen blanket. “She needs dry clothes,” he observes.

“It’s being seen to.”

It’s only then he realizes Enfys has disappeared again. Satisfied, he turns back to Maz. She’s looking at him strangely, like she’s seeing a ghost.

“So the rumors weren’t true?”

“What rumors?”

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

His ears perk up. As he told Rey, the best place to come to for information is a tavern; Maz’s is the finest gossip mill in town, given the low-life and high-class clientele who mingle here with equal satisfaction. Maybe this is the lead he’s been hoping to find, the one that will lead him to his body.

Before he can ask, though, Maz peers around his legs and looks at Rey. “Who’s the girl?” When he hesitates, she puts her hands on her hips.

_Who is she?_ An image of Rey standing barefoot on her scales, falcon mask in place and wings outspread flashes through his mind. The Keeper of Truth and Order, Judge of Souls. Kylo remains silent, which prompts a scoff from Maz.

“You dragged her in here on the brink of death and asked me to help,” she reminds him, “so I did. The least you can give me is her name, Ben.”

“Don’t call me that,” he states sharply. It’s a name he’s done all he can to burn and scatter to the winds. It isn’t who he is anymore; it’s a name from a life he can never return to, not after the things he’s done. “I am Kylo Ren.”

“You can’t hide behind that mask,” Maz says. “Not to someone who knew you as a child.”

“I’m not a child anymore, Maz.” Kylo sighs and gives her the only answer he can. “Rey. Her name is Rey.”

Belatedly, he remembers no mortal would dare take a Keeper’s name. Maz huffs in laughter, peering closer at the sleeping girl. “Can’t say I’ve ever hosted a goddess before.” When Kylo opens his mouth to try and convince her Rey is human, she stops him with a pat on his side. Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “Rest a while. I’ll go dig out the good china.”

**—————**

When she returns several hours later, he doesn't want to leave Rey. Maz insists. He doesn't have the mental or emotional strength to resist. Even his bloodiest battles against Alderaan’s surrounding kingdoms—those resistant to First Order rule—had never left him this shaken. When Maz promises him food, fresh clothes, and a stiff drink to settle his nerves, he drudges together enough energy to climb up to the main bar.

"If she wakes up and sees you like this, it's over," Maz teased gently when he’d initially protested leaving Rey’s side. "She'll run off for sure."

Whether Maz truly believes Rey to be a Keeper or not, it would seem she’s convinced they're together. Kylo isn't going to bother changing her mind; it would only lead to more questions. His decision has nothing to do with actually liking Maz viewing them as a couple. Not a bit. That would be ridiculous—they aren’t a couple. They’ve only known each other two days.

He slumps onto a barstool. Enfys quietly shoos the other patrons away; there aren't as many as he thought there'd be.

"Business troubles?" he asks casually as she pours him a drink, something green, frothy, and altogether visually unappealing. Bringing it closer, the smell wafting from the glass doesn't entice him to drink.

"It's a restorative," Maz says simply. "Downright nasty stuff, but it'll give you the boost you need."

As he lifts the glass, he gives her a smirk holding all the sarcasm he wishes to say in his silent cheers. When the vile drink hits the back of his throat, he gags. "Nasty stuff" doesn't even begin to describe the terrible beverage.

Maz puts the heel of her hand on the end of the glass, tipping it up. "Nice and quick. Finish it in one go. That's the best way."

He manages to swallow most of it. By the time he flushes out the unpleasant aftertaste with the pint of ale Maz pushes into his hand, he feels more alert and clear-headed than he did when he sat down.

"What's in that stuff?"

"Secret recipe," Maz returns with a smile. "But that isn't the question you really wanted me to answer, is it?"

At the shift in her tone, Kylo follows suit. Placing his half-finished ale on the oak counter, he tips the glass from side to side, considering his approach. "It's not."

Maz leans one elbow on the bar. "You’re curious about the rumors."

“More than curious,” he returns. “Who told you I was dead?”

Her lips thin out. "I don't make it my business to double-check sources.” Maz waves her hand to indicate the tavern’s high, gothic walls. "It's bad for business. But I had a friend of a friend of a mole look into this one."

"What did you hear?" Kylo presses. "Who is this mole?"

She pats his hand in unwanted consolation. "You've known me long enough to know I don't disclose sources."

"Maz." He needs that information. If they are going to confirm Snoke is behind the heart abductions, he needs her to talk. Maybe she can tell him why.

Food arrives, and it smells and looks infinitely more appetizing than the green drink. He digs in with gusto, but doesn't forget they were in the middle of an important conversation. Though he hates to give away any information, it may be the only way to get her to open up. If there is anyone he can trust with his secret—to even believe his tale of death and temporary resurrection—she's staring at him from the opposite side of the counter.

"Your sources aren't wrong," he reveals around a mouthful of meat. Pulling aside the fabric of his shirt, he shows her the pink, spider-web scar on his chest. "I was murdered, Maz."

She stares at him a long, long time, occasionally looking down at his chest before glancing back to his eyes. "That can't be," she says quietly.

"What did your source have to say?" he asks again.

"They saw you in George's Gorge. You and a horse. Said it was a bloody sight. They thought you’d missed a jump, but—”

“But what, Maz?”

“Everyone in Alderaan knows you’re the best horseman around. You’d never take a suicidal leap across the gorge, not in the rainy season.”

He thinks of the poor steed which had plummeted with him. Had he stood and fought, had he surrendered, the loyal animal would have suffered the same fate; no other rider could get near Silencer.

He raises his glass again, in unspoken honor of his fallen comrade, and drains the rest of the ale. “What else do you know?”

“About what happened to you? Nothing.” She shakes her head in a pitying manner.

The tavern door opens, Enfys retreating to her post. Kylo glances at the exit, at the dim morning light and rain still falling outside, before the door shuts again. Out there, his killer still walks, still breathes. There’s no telling how long Rey will remain indisposed. He has to continue pursuing the truth, not only for himself, but for her. He’d come here for revenge, but now his desire for answers outweighs his bloodlust. Though unsure what he’ll find—certainly not his heart—perhaps the gorge will reveal another clue. What is being done with the hearts? If Snoke is behind it all, what will he gain from them?

His eyes linger on the staircase. He’s never been so torn about leaving someone behind. “I should check on her.”

“She’s going to be fine,” Maz assures him. “You need to go.”

Could she so easily read the battle waging in his head? Maz’s words don’t cause either side to yield. “I need to keep her safe.”

Maz scoffs, hand at her throat in mock offence. “Dear child, don’t insult me. And quit stalling. The answers you seek are not here. They’re out _there_.”

Her rationale echoes his earlier thoughts to the point he can’t argue against them. He slides from his chair. “I have to know the truth.” He can’t go without one more confirmation. “You’ll look after Rey until I return?”

“Of course.” Maz rolls her eyes as she produces a cloak from below the bar. Kylo’s eyebrow raises. “But who will look after _you_?”

He takes the cloak with a small, appreciative smile. “You’re the only one who’d dare.”

“That’s not true. Your moth—”

He senses where she’s going and cuts her off with a flourish of his borrowed cloak. There’s no need to reopen past wounds. He leaves a final instruction for the tavern owner turned caretaker. “Rey’s special, Maz. Not just to me. To the universe. Treat her as such.”

**—————**

Her esophagus burns. A strange, acidic taste coats her tongue, which she tries to simultaneously spit out and swallow. Rey finds her lips are dry, cracking painfully with any movement. Slowly, her eyes blink open one at a time. A hazy filter blurs her vision, making her squeeze her eyes shut again. When she opens them, things are more focused.

She's greeted by a deeply tanned face full of wrinkles with deep-set, wide eyes magnified by a pair of glasses. Kindness and concern reflect through the lenses. Light from a nearby fire glints off her bald head speckled with sun and age spots. Her thin-lipped smile reminds Rey of the Devourer, severe but loving.

"There you are, my child," the woman purrs. Her voice is soft and round, full-bodied—unexpected, since the woman is about as tall as an eight-year-old who hasn't yet hit her growth spurt. "Out of the woods at last. You're going to be okay, Rey."

It’s shocking to hear her name fall from this stranger’s mouth. Was this woman her ally? "Who," she begins, darting her tongue across her lower lip to ease the splitting skin, "are you?"

"Maz Kanata." She shifts the items in her lap to inch closer; she'd been polishing a set of knives. "You're safe here."

"Where's here?" Rey's throat is scratchy and that terrible taste still clings to the inside of her mouth and throat, so she makes a request: "Water?"

Maz's hands, knobbly at the knuckles but still deft despite her arthritis, pour a small amount of water from a pewter pitcher into a matching cup, handing it to Rey. "Slowly,” she cautions. “Not too much."

Rey doesn't listen and swallows every drop, sputtering and coughing as punishment for her haste. The racking of her lungs wakes up the rest of her body, and the unpleasant taste in her mouth is nothing in comparison to the sourness eating at her stomach. She wonders if she's going to be sick.

Maz eyes her with a frown but doesn't chastise her. She addresses Rey's first question instead. "You're under my tavern, on the outskirts of Alderaan."

Rey holds out her cup for more water, but Maz shakes her head and takes the cup from her instead. "Not yet," she explains. "Your stomach can't handle much right now. Give it time."

Her thirst leaves her frustrated, but there are more important questions to ask of her appointed guardian. Rey’s main concern is how much this woman knows. Her eyes seem bright, intelligent, like they see past facades and schemes and root down into the truth as easily as Rey can read a heart placed on her scale. She bets Maz would give the Wise One a fair contest at wits. Even so, she elects to tread carefully. "The man I was with. . ."

"Kylo Ren," Maz names him.

_So she knows him too_. "Where is he?"

"Gone."

The abruptness and brevity of the response startles her. "‘Gone?’" Rey repeats, head sinking deeper into the pillow, all thought of fighting the lethargy weighing her down evaporating. "He left me here?"

Maz leans forward to pat her arm, then strokes it in consolation. "Not quite. He couldn't stay, my child. He's supposed to be a dead man, and my tavern is a hub for, shall we say, gossip. It was dangerous for him to bring you here."

The words swim in her mind, filling her with more questions than answers. Maz had heard rumors of his death, but hadn't questioned his appearance at her doorstep, nor why he was carrying a sick, barely-conscious woman? It didn’t make sense. Why would Kylo bring her here if it posed risk of exposure?

"I need to find him." Rey rolls over and pushes to her hands and knees on the mattress. Her stomach churns. The urge to vomit intensifies. Her head is woozy, sluggish. _What happened to me_? She knows her life was at risk, but why?

Maz's hand squeezes her shoulder. "You need more rest," she says. "The poison is working through your system."

_Poison_. Now the events become clear. She remembers the look on the Lost One’s face in the forest, the fear behind his eyes. She remembers slipping in and out of consciousness, panting against his chest as she tried to catch her breath, the relief of being out of the rain, and the chill of a subterranean room. He'd been here when she was sick. He’d held her, warmed her, soothed her.

And then he’d left.

For the first time since waking, Rey feels the itch on her palm. It doesn’t burn as it did when she began to storm away in anger, when she threatened to break her bond. This is an itch brought about by distance. They should be together.

Rey eases back onto her heels, kneeling, so she doesn’t end up with her face in the pillow once more. "I don't have the luxury of waiting. Where are my things?"

Maz's tone shifts slightly, more stern. "You'll eat first. And drink. Once I’m certain you can keep it down, you'll get your belongings back."

Rey bristles, swinging her legs to the edge of the bed and surging up with an authoritative "Listen—" springing from her dry lips. It leads to immediate regret. Rey’s vision goes dark and she falls back to the bed, bouncing against the mattress, one she suspects is filled with feathers and not straw.

"Wretch," she curses her human body.

The woman's expression is a mix of pity and understanding. "I imagine he'll come back after he's found what he's searching for."

Her reassurance stops Rey from railing against her helpless form momentarily. So, he'd continued on their quest to find his heart. At least it was a small bandage for the time she'd lost while unconscious. With alarm, Rey realizes she doesn’t know how long it’s been. Days could have passed.

"How long have I been here?" Rey asks.

Maz thinks a moment. “You were in and out through the night.”

“And when did the Los—he leave?” She can’t speak his known name, but she doesn’t want Maz to ask more questions.

“Just after daybreak,” Maz returns. “He’ll be halfway to George’s Gorge by now.”

“I must go to him.”

“Not before you eat.” Maz is stubborn about the point.

Though the thought of food makes her stomach roll, she knows she needs to fuel this body with something if she intends to go after Kylo and his heart. So she nods and gives in to the woman’s insistence. “Bring food.”

Maz smiles and gets up from her seat. "I'll be back with something soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today, separation.  
> Wednesday, reunion.  
> :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo finds his body. Rey finds Kylo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Heads Up / Trigger Warning: There is some brutal content concerning Kylo's death at the start of this chapter. If you're squicked by blood, gore, or violence it might upset you. Does it help if the rest of this chapter is smut?**
> 
> **Also, in reading this back, the rating for this chapter might be more Explicit than Mature.**

A red string of light floats before her, threaded from the band on her third finger into the foreseeable distance. If she reached out, Rey could wrap the imaginary cord until it formed a ball in her hands. Instead, she reaches out with her feelings, as the Wise One had taught her long ago, searching for the weight tugging at the other end, pulling her closer.

He's out there somewhere, without her. Rey doesn't know why Kylo can't seem to get it through his head: the only way they will be victorious is by working together. It isn’t only his heart and peace at stake. Rey doesn’t want any more souls to face the Devourer’s mighty jaw and unending gut.

As she climbs to the crest of a hill, it begins to rain. Given the humidity, it starts out warm, the droplets landing on her skin like tears. She tilts her head to the clouds, smiling. The sky above her ignites in silvered streaks of light. Thunder claps shake her bone-deep, but Rey has no fear of the storm.

As she plods on, however, things change. The air’s initial warmth is erased by an onslaught of water, clouds, and wind. Soaked as she is, the chill bites into her skin, making her flesh prickle and tighten with shivers. She clutches her borrowed cloak tighter to her arms, soldiering on.

Perhaps a knowing mortal would stop and seek shelter. She can almost hear Kylo chiding her for her cavalier attitude about the stormy weather, but hearing his voice in her mind only pushes her further into the woods, never losing the feel of the thin bond stretching between them.

Her shoes are waterlogged. She feels she’s been trudging along for hours; there's no telling how many miles she's traversed. The rain beats on her in a pummeling rage, though the lightning and thunder abated some time and distance ago. It rumbles faintly behind her.

The wilderness doesn't frighten Rey. It can't keep her from finding him, even when the path becomes difficult to follow, even when it disappears altogether and she’s forced to clamor over rocks and fallen trunks, steadily making her way down instead of up. Rey’s abandoned all sense of direction, holding onto the lifeline of their forged bond. It glows brighter; she’s close now. A deep scarlet line cuts through the blur of rain and oncoming twilight. Another sunset gone.

As Rey descends, the trees thin and the boulders become stoney slabs, whittling down until she’s treading on pebbles. At the bottom of the gorge, she’s sandwiched between two sheer rock walls too steep to climb. The only way in or out is through the dangerous footpath she just navigated or ahead.

The red light vanishes, its endpoint in sight. In the center of the ravine, many yards away, he’s there.

_Lost One_. Her chest swells with relief. _I’ve found you._

—————

He's stiff from crouching so long, having waited out the rain next to the body — his body — for the entire downpour. Though the rain has tapered to a drizzle, it adds cold weight to his shoulders and plasters his hair against his face and neck. Using a stick, he pokes at the carcass.

Left in the ravine, where water has ebbed and flowed with the rainy season, his body has bloated, the flesh swollen and sallow. He stares down at the lifeless, clouded eyes, the waxy skin. He thought he would feel something upon seeing his body: relief, rage, sorrow. But he doesn't experience any of these emotions. He only feels a raw emptiness at seeing his corpse rotting, abandoned and forgotten, in the unforgiving gorge.

After dragging his father from his years-long prison cell—after carrying out the execution—Kylo had made sure his father received a proper cremation. Han had been adorned with all the usual ceremonial trappings: robes threaded with gold and jewels, badges denoting his military honors, the meticulous book of confessions he'd kept thanks to Leia's badgering.

There had been no funeral procession to the pyre; there hadn’t been time. Snoke had called Kylo to his chambers to demand his father’s heart—a show of loyalty, his mentor had said.

The sound of footsteps sloshing through the mud and puddles interrupts his preoccupation. It has to be Rey. _She can’t have recovered from the carrion crowns’ effects so soon._ Another thought panics him as he pushes to a stand. _She can’t see me like this._

He rises so fast his vision goes momentarily dark, making him stagger. There's no time to recover. He lurches forward, away from the shell of himself. "Rey," he calls. "Stop."

She looks almost as bedraggled as he feels. Her clothes are equally soaked, and it frightens him to realize she's trekked through the storm to find him so soon after her brush with death. They're miles away from the tavern, equidistant from the city. And yet, she didn't hesitate to try to find him.

_What was she thinking_? He should throttle her—or Maz for not stopping her—but he falls at her feet, wrapping his arms around the back of her thighs, and pulls her against him.

"Lost One?"

"Please," he begs. "Please don't venture any farther."

—————

The way he clings to her threatens her balance. Rey’s knees buckle, and she has to brace her arms against his broad shoulders to keep from toppling over. Sensing this, one of his hands roams up and presses against her lower back. Through the pain of his embrace, she can feel him tremble.

It isn't the chill or the rain making him shake. She knows what lies a short distance away. It makes her breath catch.

"I don't want you to see me like that," he mumbles against her thigh.

Rey runs her fingers over his hair, picking at the wet strands and clearing a section from his face so she can meet his eyes. The rain masks any tears he may have shed, but his eyelids are red and swollen.

Gently tracing the scar running from his forehead to his cheek, Rey cups his jaw, soothing him with slow strokes of her thumb. "I must."

It’s a simple statement with no room for interpretation or protest. There are things she can see when she touches a body no mortal can.

"My heart isn't there," he reports.

"But the truth is," she explains. "Let me pass, Lost One."

It takes him effort to release her, to let go of her clothes and drop his arms to his sides. Rey leaves him kneeling in a puddle that’s steadily becoming a stream with the relentless rain. They shouldn't stay in this ravine much longer; the soil beneath her feet and the lines of darkened stone to either side tell her floods happen with some frequency. It isn't safe.

It isn’t a good place to die either.

His body is supine, giving her an unhindered view of his injuries. His tunic is torn, revealing slashed flesh. The murderer had removed his heart carelessly. No healer had carried out the act. Because of the rain, there's no longer any blood, but it doesn't make the wound any less gruesome.

As she crouches next to the corpse, she sees another mark, farther down his torso. It's only a small puncture, but Rey knows it was what killed him. Hesitantly—bracing herself for what she expects will come—she touches the wound with her fingers.

The vision is sharp and quick, if incomplete. Kylo is on the ground, incapacitated from his fall down the ravine. Wielded from above, the curved blade from her first vision pierces his abdomen, stabbing through muscles and organs. The sleek, otherworldly metal rips through everything irreparably. A quarter turn floods his nervous system with excruciating pain. Once withdrawn, blood and bile spill into the newly created cavity.

Rey retracts her trembling hand, the other one covering her mouth. It's a cruel wound, a terrible way to die. The suffering he must have felt at so dishonorable a death is unfathomable.

_Compose yourself. There is more to come._

She takes several deep breaths before reaching to the gaping hole on the other side of his chest. She needs to know what happened to his heart. This is the only way.

Her hand tentatively settles across the destruction. Another vision begins, this one as terrible as the last, though she takes some comfort in knowing Kylo was already dead when his chest was ripped apart by the red-headed attacker. She can't feel his pain because he had no sense of it; however, her own reaction to the monstrous deed is enough to make acid burn the back of her throat.

It had been messy work, brutal in execution. While flesh is soft, the muscle beneath is not so easily cut away. Bones had been even more of a hindrance, and by the time those had been sawn through or broken, blood was everywhere. It coated the butcher's hand, the fang-shaped dagger, and the cloth surrounding the wound.

His heart, a most precious thing, tablet of the soul, had been carved out and squeezed by unclean, unworthy hands. Rey can feel the rage behind the unrelenting grip, its strength squeezing her windpipe, strangling her on a memory.

As the heart leaks out its final pulsing reserves of awareness, its final moments of attachment to the physical realm, the edges of her vision go black. That's when she gets the confirmation they’ve sought: folds of shimmering, golden robes and jewel-studded slippers come into view; a twisted and scarred hand reaches out to receive its victim.

It's a hand Rey has seen before and she recoils. She’s seen enough to reinforce their earlier suspicions; his mentor, Snoke, has his heart.

—————

The hike back to Maz's is slow, meditative. Kylo makes his way up the ravine first, offering his hand when needed. He's patient as she finds safe footholds on the slick, shifting rocks—a steadying presence she can rely on to help her reach the top. If only she had her wings, Rey could bypass the need for care or the waste of time. Her arms ache as if to say they long for them too.

In her few days on Patagonia, Rey has found little good about inhabiting a mortal body. It weakens with every exertion, bleeds profusely, and takes exception to certain foods. Why would anyone regret giving up such a miserable existence?

Once they reach the top, Rey is shaking: from the climb’s stress and effort, from the biting winds, from the cold that’s leached warmth from her flesh and marrow. The image of the Lost One's desecrated body won't leave her even though Kylo’s here, right beside her.

Noticing her shivers, he throws his cloak over her shoulders while keeping it wrapped around himself. Rey left hers behind, placing it over the corpse, the only token of respect she could give. His arm winds around her waist and draws her close to his side. Warmth permeates through the wet fabric, and it's such a welcome sensation that she leans into it without hesitation, grateful to share this comforting thing between them that is more than body heat.

Rey continues to tremble as they retreat to Maz’s tavern, but this time it is from things she can't name.

—————

At the threshold to the subterranean room, he unlaces his cloak, shrugging out of it and letting it drape around her. Several inches bunch at the floor, enveloping her completely. Kylo turns to the fireplace, building up the logs and igniting the kindling. His fingers are cold and stiff as he works, but he has to get a fire started or they'll both catch a chill.

Once the hearth is glowing and the crackling pops resonate off the walls, Kylo stands to find Rey in the same spot, watching him. He clears his throat. "I should find Maz. She'll have dry clothes somewhere."

He begins to step around her, but her hand splits the cloak’s center, palm rising to his chest. A strange pulse shoots through his torso where she touches him—almost like the thudding beat of a heart he doesn’t have. When her eyes lift to meet his, they are round and sincere and pleading. "Don't go."

The request makes him ache. Since the ravine, she hasn't stepped away from him, and he can only imagine the thoughts running through her mind. His own hand covers hers, squeezing it in reassurance. "We need to change out of our wet clothes before we get sick."

He's about to make a joke about the frailness of human bodies when she says, "We'll dry them by the fire."

"Rey," he begins, swallowing the lump lodged in the back of his throat.

Her hand has already slipped underneath his shirt’s open collar, resting on his chest in a way that would make his pulse race if he had one. "You're warm."

Her eyes slide to the fire. A faint blush colors her cheeks, almost obscured by the glow of the flames. Kylo can't make sense of the change within her or why it's happened. He feels a pull toward her like nothing he had ever felt in his life, a need to comfort and console her, to keep her safe, to see her through to victory. He would give everything to her, he realizes, and she wouldn't even have to ask. He'd lay the world at her feet if it were still within his power to give it.

"Rey," he says again, raising her chin with his curved finger. He searches her eyes for some sign of what she wants.

"I don't want to be alone," she says, pressing closer. Her hand fists in the wet fabric of his shirt.

Kylo's hand cups her face, scanning her eyes with his own. There are tears there, glistening but unshed. Not for the first time, he wonders what it was she saw when she touched his body. It's left her shaken. This goddess who has seen death in all manners and varieties still quakes with what she witnessed at the scene of his murder.

It is too much to hope she trembles because it was _him_ , that his death is somehow more impactful because it was _his_ and not someone else's?

Her skin is cool to the touch. He smooths back a piece of wet hair from her face, searching her eyes for some sign that. . .what? That she can feel this too? This connection between them?

"You're not alone," he says softly. And he means it. He means it more than he can possibly express with words.

To show her, Kylo leans down, inching his way toward her lips, hesitant at every step. Once he kisses her, it's over. He'll have lost a heart he doesn't even possess, will have given it entirely to her.

_Perhaps_ , he thinks, _it was hers from the very start_.

—————

The moment his full lips settle on hers, they part slightly with a gasp. It's like a bolt of lightning from the storm has struck her, entering through her lips and grounding down through the center of her body, pooling at the base of her spine, low in her abdomen. It shocks and delights her at once.

Kylo uses her surprise to his advantage, sweeping his tongue along her upper lip to coax her to open her mouth. She does, melting into the taste of him. A satisfied moan climbs up her throat as he deepens the kiss even more, both hands now cupping her face and neck, fingertips scraping against her roots.

Her own hands begin to roam from the middle of his chest. They move up and over his broad shoulders, clutching at their rounded tops until one hand is bold enough to dig into his hair and crush his mouth to hers more earnestly. Rey can barely breathe, but she can't bring herself to give this up, not yet.

When Kylo does break from her, he presses tender kisses to the corners of her mouth, the bow of her upper lip, whispering, "I'm here," between each one.

His thumbs swipe at tears she didn't realize had worked their way from her eyes. Lost in the sensation of his kiss, she'd almost forgotten the reason for her distress and why Kylo’s reassuring her he's here.

Now she remembers. The look of his corpse, skin icy and pallid. Heat blazes beneath her hand now. There’s a flush to his skin as she traces the scar on his cheek. He's alive. If only for two more sunsets. And she's alive for the first time. Everything feels compounded, each touch equal to a thousand, each sensation magnified by its novelty and its impending end. For there is only so much time—their sand is streaming steadily away.

They may be ripped apart at the end of this, but for now they are together. It has to be enough.

But how could it ever be enough? How can she savor the weight of his lips against her throat or the way his nose nuzzles at the base of her ear? How will she ever explore the hard lines and muscles pressed against her to her satisfaction? Where does she even begin?

The truth is, she knows what love looks like. She's seen it in the memories of both good and bad spirits, knows how touch and emotion collide in heated moments to create a passion that imprints on human hearts. In her time, she's seen everything from tender first kisses to depraved interludes.

What Rey has never witnessed, though, is how the Lost One's pupils swell wide and deep with desire. He wants her. And, _stars_ , does she want him. He's panting as he bends his head down, close enough to kiss, but holding back.

"Should we hang our things?" he murmurs, a thumb gliding across her swollen bottom lip.

It's a loaded question, she knows. It's an agreement, an approval. Rey nods, already reaching for her belt. Her fingers feel thick and clumsy, and she growls down at them as she struggles with the buckle: "Listen, don't interfere."

Kylo's hand covers both of her own. "Don't be afraid. I feel it too."

"Frustrated with your garments?"

He laughs. "Nervous." His hand travels up her arm underneath the cloak until the heavy fabric drops away.

His openness is something Rey doesn't expect, and it makes her lean closer, her own clothing entirely forgotten in lieu of removing his. His shirt peels away easily. She takes care to drape it over the grate in front of the fire. Before she can move on to his pants, he makes quick work of her belt and pulls her top over her head in a smooth movement. The items join his on the grate.

They've been shirtless together before, at the Tico Farm. But this is different. There isn't a sense of unease or wariness reflecting back at her from his eyes, though he swallows just as hard as he did then. His gaze is locked on her chest, to the peaks of her small breasts. Her nipples are already pebbled.

"I wanted to touch you," he admits. "The first time I saw you like this. Your nudity didn't bother me, not in the way you thought."

She flushes, and the current she felt earlier strikes again. Hearing she's desirable—that he'd wanted her then and clearly wants her now—makes the heat at her center grow and spread. Despite the fire at her back, she shivers when he reaches for her.

His hand slips around her waist, fingers splaying against her lower back. She brings her own to his bare chest, her eyes focused on the scar where his heart should be. Another emotional wave catches her off guard, but she bites it back. The Lost One's free hand tilts her chin so he can bring his lips to hers once more.

—————

Kylo never wants to stop kissing her. Her mouth is hot and sweet, her tongue untrained yet eager to learn. He may only be a student in understanding the art of pleasure, but Rey is already a master in his eyes. Every touch, every sound provokes a reaction from him. She moves him in a way nothing else ever has. As she goes, he matches her stroke for stroke—with his tongue and teeth, with his hands, with anything and everything he has in his repertoire.

His erection strains inside his pants when her hands skim over his hips and circle around to grip him from behind. He can't hold back the thrust that shows her what she's doing to him. Rey moans against his mouth, and it takes a considerable amount of control not to toss her onto the bed.

He's not sure how long that control will last. Not when her hands are tugging his leathers down, bunching at the tops of his thighs, just enough to set him free.

She breaks away from his mouth, licking her way down his throat, pressing kisses to his collarbone, to the scar above his heart that makes something deep within him ache. When she drops her gaze to his hard length, they open wide. Her teeth worry her bottom lip.

"You're beautiful," she says, palming him gently.

_Mercy_ , he thinks. There's no hope for him if she keeps touching him like she is.

To distract her, he surges forward, lips crashing against hers again, stepping them back toward the bed. When her knees hit the edge of the mattress, she sinks down with a short yelp. Kylo takes the moment to shuck himself free of his remaining garments. He stands before her, entirely nude.

Her eyes roam over him from top to bottom, the hunger in her expression an accelerant for his already heightened desire. Her fingertips brush against the flesh of his thigh, then trail inward, running along the length of his cock. Tentatively, she curls her hand around him.

"Rey," he breathes. Is it a warning? A plea? A prayer? He can't say. All he can repeat is her name.

Her strokes coax pearls of moisture from his tip. It would be so easy for her to make him come like this, with a firm but simple touch. It's almost embarrassing how hard he is, how lost he is to her.

"Wait," he croaks, staying her hands.

She looks up at him, eyelids hooded and mouth slightly open. She bites her lip again and all he can picture is her gorgeous mouth wrapped around him. He bucks involuntarily at the thought, brushing against the fabric of her pants.

"Am I doing this wrong?"

Kylo sinks down on one knee, placing himself between her legs. His hand reaches to push the hair from her face and smooth the wrinkles from her brow. He smiles. "Nothing you do can be wrong."

Her lip quivers like she might argue, so he runs his thumb along the plump, pink skin. Her teeth nip at the pad before her tongue darts out to soothe it. "Why did you stop me?"

Her question tells him all he needs to know. "Have you no idea what you do to me?"

Her eyes travel down in a meaningful way. "I have some idea, Lost One."

He groans over the name. It isn't what he wants to hear fall from her lips when he's finally sheathed inside her. "Call me by my name."

Her quick temper flashes through her desire. "You haven't given me your name, _Lost One_."

She emphasizes the placeholder, making him growl and grip her hips, pulling her closer to the edge of the mattress. A surprised sound catches in the back of her throat, and he thinks she'll resist him, but Rey doesn't push him away. She could, if she wished. Instead, when he parts her knees, she splays herself open, one leg to either side of his body.

The heady scent of her arousal washes over him, something musky and sweet that makes him dig his fingers a little deeper into the material on her thighs. There's a dark spot at her center where she's soaked through the rough cotton. Shifting one hand, he outlines the dampness with a finger. Rey squirms, whining.

He draws her even closer, her rear hanging off of the mattress now. Kylo supports her from the bottom, raising her center to his mouth. When he places his mouth over her and sucks at her through her pants, Rey responds by burying her hand into his hair and rocking into him. She muffles her cry. Kylo scrapes his teeth against her.

"Say it, Rey."

Her hand drags out of his hair and she props up to look at him. Her expression is serious. "I can't call you who you aren't."

"It's who I am now," he protests, pulling back from her. His escape is thwarted by her knees; they squeeze against his shoulders, trapping him in the conversation. "I can't go back to being. . . _him_."

"That's not true." She's adamant. "I've seen who you are. I've seen you at your most desperate hour, and I know who you are at your core. Don't deny your true self."

—————

Her voice is thick, but her words are sincere. She needs him to understand it isn't the dark prince persona she wants: she wants the man who brought her berries when she hungered, who comforted her through an uneasy sleep, who saved her from certain death. Who she needs is:

"Ben." The name pushes past his lips like a secret. It's a labor for him, difficult and painful. He cringes at the word.

Her smile stretches wide as she slips her legs over his shoulders, guiding him back to her. "Ben," she repeats. His name warms her tongue, though it doesn't stop there. The truth of it sends hot blood rushing to all corners of her body. This is who she wants. Ben.

His fingers work their way into the cotton fabric, pulling the pants over her cheeks and tugging them down her legs. She wiggles to aid the process. Once free, she hums with victory.

Ben wastes no time in continuing what he started, his tongue running along her folds. He nuzzles against her, bumping her clit with his nose and making her thighs clench together. To keep from being smothered, he hooks an arm around each, holding them apart while he continues to lave and suck and explore her with his mouth.

Rey cants her hips to add friction and Ben hums his approval. He begins to circle her clit with purpose, and it's too much. It feels beyond what words can express, beyond anything she has ever experienced. The intensity is overwhelming and she thinks she might break apart—this mortal body is done for good this time. She's going to split at the center and it's his tongue which will unravel her.

"Ben," she tries to warn him, but it sounds more like she might sob.

Her whimper only spurs him on, adding more pressure as he shortens his licks, unrelenting.

Her thighs are shaking. Rey's hands twist into the sheets at her sides, her back arching off the mattress. She bucks involuntarily against his mouth and his teeth bump against her clit. It's too much.

"Ben!"

His name is a breathless cry—perhaps the last she will ever have—as her vision goes white and all sound dies away. Every sensation is numbed like she's in the Void except for the throbbing spot between her legs. Electric shocks sweep through her with each languid swipe of his tongue as he eases her down. Rey shudders and dissolves.

It's over. His mouth lifts away from her slit and his chin rests on her pubis. She gets some sense he's saying her name, but the sound is muffled.

Her head rolls against the mattress as she opens her eyes. She may have been momentarily transported to the Sublime, but he has her tethered to a different plane of reality with those pretty eyes and lips that glisten with her release. She can feel the tug somewhere below her navel.

He kisses the soft flesh of her inner thigh. "Rey, are you still with me?"

A shaky laugh falls from her lips. His hand snakes up the center of her torso, fingers spread over her sternum. His touch works as a sort of anchor, holding her in place as his mouth trails up and down her legs, tongue tracing the creases of her thighs.

She'd wanted him to stay and show her he was here: alive and breathing and safe. Not like what she'd seen in the gorge. Anything but that. He'd gone above and beyond to erase the terrible image from her mind, to comfort and reassure her.

Now it’s her turn to do the same.

—————

"Ben."

She's said nothing else besides his name, his _real_ , honest name, since he'd removed her pants. In the time it had taken him to bring her to the highest pinnacle, she'd whispered it, groaned it, sighed it, shouted it. He'd long thought he never wanted to hear his given name again—would have preferred to tear the word from existence—but the way she says it makes him yearn to hear it in every conceivable iteration for the rest of his life.

"Ben." It's warm: an invitation. Her hand entwines with his own in the middle of her abdomen. She gently tugs on it. “Come here.”

Half of her body still hangs over the mattress, so he loops his free arm around her waist and moves them both toward the center of the bed, nudging his way between her legs. Her knees tilt and bend, allowing her to loosely lock her ankles at the small of his back. It puts him at the perfect angle. If he were to lower himself against her body just so. . .

But first, "I'm still waiting for an answer, Rey. Are you with me?"

He leans down and kisses her right shoulder, her clavicle. She stalls, humming as if considering her answer. Following the vibrations, he licks and nips at the column of her throat until he reaches her left earlobe and tickles it with his nose.

Both of her hands slide into his hair, gripping it and returning his face to center, her gaze locked on his. "I'm here," she murmurs, drawing him down for a long, lingering kiss. "Let me show you."

Her heels dig into his back; it's all the encouragement he needs. Kylo angles himself against her, rubbing his cock through the hot slick of her release before pressing into her.

He doesn't get far before he stops. Checking. Searching for discomfort. Gauging her reaction. Her mouth is parted, her eyes ablaze. She shifts and gains another inch inside her. Rey's eyes drift closed, and a satisfied hum tells him this is as blissful for her as it is for him.

It's more than bliss. It's worlds beyond that. She's tight around him, still wet and pulsating from her earlier orgasm. He's in some kind of dream, a fantasy he didn't know he had.

"More," she whispers, snaking her arms around his neck, fingers twisting a lock of his hair.

Kylo obliges, sinking into her as far as he can. She mewls, rocking her hips from side to side to guide him deeper. When he's fully sheathed, he takes a moment to kiss her, to buy them both some time to adjust to the delicious feeling.

She nips at his bottom lip as they break apart, and says, "I feel so full."

He bows, forehead in the crook of her neck. "You're incredible, Rey."

Kylo attempts to withdraw but only makes it halfway before her hips chase after him. He smiles against her skin. "Patience," he breathes, gliding back into her.

It becomes clear patience is not one of her virtues. She moves underneath him at her own rhythm, seeking to climb to another peak. This time, he's determined to reach that summit with her, beside her. They'll topple over it together. Gripping her hips, he evens out her pace as he continues to thrust into her. He tries to keep things slow, to savor this while it lasts.

Her heels grind into his back, nails biting into his shoulders. " _Harder_.”

So he shifts, disengaging her legs from his waist so he can hold them outward and upward. When she whines with need, he realizes this isn't going to work. The angles are wrong.

"I've got you, Rey." It's an apology and promise.

"Ben, please."

As quickly as he can—knowing he's more rough with her than he intends—he flips Rey so she's on her belly. She makes another discontented sound at the change, at the disconnection. “Up,” he pants. “Knees.”

Kylo helps steady her as she listens. He brings her ass against him. Taking himself in hand, he rubs his cock along her center, then enters her from behind. She pulls forward a bit at the new sensation, then sinks back to test the position.

" _Kriff_ ," he swears, watching her rock onto him. If possible, she’s tighter than before. There is no way he'll be able to keep this up. He hooks an arm around her waist and brings her up so her back rests against his chest. He buries his nose in her hair and inhales as he attempts to center himself. " _Rey_."

Her name is a hoarse, strangled thing that gets lost in her thick hair.

She grinds down, her cheeks cushioned on the tops of his thighs. He thrusts up. He isn't gentle.

"Oh—" One of her hands claws at his hips, as if she could bring him closer. It isn't possible. They connect at all points, skin to skin. They are both slick with sweat and the room’s heat is almost oppressive now, but he's locked in the hottest part of her and he'll gladly burn. She ignites him.

He builds a steady pace, hard like she wants, quick like she craves. At one point, she bends forward and he wonders if it's too much for her. Then she tosses her head back and calls out his name, panting with need as she angles to kiss him. It's more teeth than tongue, and it drives him on, making him lose his rhythm. Rey doesn't seem to mind, each thrust met with a grunt or moan of pleasure.

Kylo snakes a hand around their joined bodies, skimming down her flat abdomen, over the thatch of hair hiding what his lips found earlier: that sensitive spot which will push her over the edge with him. She gasps when his fingers rub against it. Her hips suddenly can't decide whether to rock back onto his cock or up into the pressure from his fingers.

" _Kriff, Ben_."

He smiles against her shoulder blade. This has to be the best iteration of his name to fall from her lips yet: a curse and a prayer wrapped up in one.

Neither one of them lasts long after that. He finishes first, spurting hot and desperate inside of her, hips snapping violently as he shudders through his release. Before he loses himself completely, Kylo strokes her through to a second climax; her hands clamp down on the sides of his thighs, fingernails carving half-moons into his skin.

Both spent, they fall forward on the mattress, still nestled together.


End file.
